


The Raven and the Dove (Edited)

by TextualDeviance



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-03-20 20:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 41
Words: 68,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3664266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By request: An edited version of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/107630">my Athelnar series</a>, for those not into the NC-17 level sex scenes.</p><p>There IS still plenty of sex in here. There are far too many critical conversations and plot points that happen during sex scenes for me to redact them entirely. I have, however, toned it down considerably. It's a lot more euphemistic, a few scenes are fade-to-black, and I did cut a couple of PWPs entirely. It's more or less on par with canon sex, though probably closer to the unedited versions than the ones History airs. (Also, the non-con warnings are for references, not actual non-con scenes.) </p><p>Basically, if you're not squeamish about sex in general but you'd rather read for plot than porn, this is your version.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Raven and the Dove

He knew he shouldn't dawdle like this, but today, Athelstan felt the pull of God's creation more than the pull of man's; he wanted to be outdoors, feeling the sun on his face and smelling the salt spray more than he wanted to be hunched over his work table in the dark, dusty scriptorium.

Brother Cenwulf hurried ahead of him, his sandals stirring the earth as he rushed to get to their work. He glanced over his shoulder. "Brother Athelstan, why have you stopped? The Lord will not wait for us."

"Go on ahead," Athelstan told him. "I will be there soon." He smiled. Brother Cenwulf was a friend, but also a man who nervously clung to every element of order in their regimented life. Athelstan himself could not do so. Though this life was all he had really known since he was a small child, something inside him remembered a life more free than this, and wondered at times whether he ever could find such a thing again.

Perhaps that was why he had so loved to travel, and took every opportunity to go on missions. His most recent sojourn, to a monastery in Frankia, had been one of the most amazing experiences of his life. He paused at a rise in the path, seeing a glimpse of the sea over the walls of his home. He closed his eyes, remembering the rough crossing of the narrow channel between Wessex and Frankia. All around him, his brothers had been vomiting, their stomachs churned by the roiling waves, but such buffeting about had served only to energize him. He stood at the front, not caring that his habit was being soaked each time a wave split across the prow. In his mind, the cries of the seagulls on his own island's shore became the ones of the gulls on a shore far more distant.

A sudden cry of an entirely different bird pierced his reverie. On a fence rail near the path, a glossy, black raven hopped restlessly. Athelstan stared, and to his astonishment, the bird stared back.

His first impulse was revulsion. Eaters of carrion, such birds were unclean. And yet, he recalled, God favored them, too, and had used them to feed Elijah as he hid from Ahab. An impulse he did not understand drew him toward the bird. It remained as he approached, fidgeting yet standing ground. Finally, as he was close enough to almost reach out and stroke the bird's ebony back, it cried out again and took wing, aiming for the flock of its brothers heading east in the rising sun.

***  

As a farmer, Ragnar was used to the pungent smells of animal dung. Pigs were the worst, but goats and cows not much better. What he never could get used to, though, was the smell of a human who had soiled himself once a blade or arrow had ended his life. Still, such stench was part of death, and death was part of life—his life, in particular.

The village of the Rus was one they had raided before. Its crude structures still bore scars from the last time its peaceful inhabitants had faced the brutal onslaught of the men from Kattegat. A shelter in a goat pen, which Floki had burnt down in their previous visit, had been rebuilt.

The farmer whose goats they were lay at Ragnar's feet, what was left of his blood staining the muddy ground. In the last raid, Ragnar had taken pity on the old man, and let him live. Rollo had objected: "Leave one alive, and he will exact revenge on you." Rollo was right. Instead of simply barricading himself and his wife inside their hut as before, he had met the raiders this time with a blade—a scythe—in hand. For this act of courage, he had perished, and the wails of his widow echoed in Ragnar's head. Nearly hidden by her din, however, he heard another sound: A coo; Gentle, if tinged with alarm.

Ragnar turned toward the sound. In a corner near a rough stone wall was a series of small cages. Most of these held rabbits, chickens, and other small creatures, but one on the end also held a brace of stock doves. Thin this early in the season, they were not yet ready for eating—not that most of them would be fattening up anytime soon. A spear that had missed its mark lay embedded in the side of the cage, where it had pierced or crushed the occupants. A lone survivor huddled by the partly open door, nudging at the gap, trying to seek freedom. Its wings stained with the blood of its fellows, it was nonetheless a striking bird: a gray so light that in brighter sun, it may have appeared white.

Ragnar approached the cage. The bird cowered, trying in vain to find an empty corner within its coop to hide from the blood-drenched human that stalked it. Ragnar felt a wash of pity. It was not this bird's fault that the farm on which it lived had been sacked and its companions felled by careless aim. He reached out, the bird's coos now a panicked cacophony, and snapped the door off of its broken hinge.

For a moment, the dove seemed confused. It stayed where it was, body tight against a corpse behind it, not daring to go toward Ragnar to seek the opening. Ragnar, understanding, stood aside. In a moment, the bird stepped gingerly toward the gap. It opened its wings, but then hesitated, tilting its head and eyeing the human who had provided it with freedom.

"I mean you no harm," Ragnar murmured, the words foreign on his tongue. "Go."

And so it did, aiming for the rocky shoreline to the west. Ragnar frowned. There was nothing that direction but the sea.


	2. Purpose

_"Why did you spare my life?"_

Ragnar had told the priest that he didn't know, which was the truth, both then and now. In the moment he had discovered the hiding spot, he largely had been surprised that the young Christian knew his language, and then that he cared nothing for protecting the treasures in his temple. He knew that the man could be useful for the sake of information, but there was more to it than that. All the useful knowledge the priest had could've been elicited while they were on the journey home, and then he could have—should have, in the opinion of some—simply killed the man and lightened their boat's load. Yet a fire burned within him; a protective instinct he had felt before only for his children or his wife—not that she couldn't protect herself.  He felt compelled to keep this man alive, even in the face of opposition from his fellows, and to take him home in place of a piece of gold or silver thought much more valuable. Such a weak man could be of little use as a work slave; he would merely be another mouth to feed, and one that would likely babble blasphemies to his children about a false god, so why keep him? Ragnar's mind, troubled as it was with many other things, kept returning to that question. 

Some of the men of his war-band had joked that all the priests at the temple must be ergi, else why would they have fallen so easily under the axe and sword? Some had even used a few of the conquered men thus. With no women around to relieve post-battle arousal, it had fallen to a few of the younger priests, with their soft hair and smooth faces, to satisfy those needs before they were subsequently dispatched. Ragnar himself had never before raped neither women nor men—it was not in him to perpetuate such unnecessary tortures—but perhaps his men thought it was for that purpose that he had saved Athelstan and kept him for a personal slave. Perhaps they thought Lagertha wasn't satisfying him well enough, or that 15 years of marriage had dulled his interest in her, yet she wouldn't allow him the pleasures of another woman.

Going by what they had just finished doing, the notion that they had tired of each other was far enough out of the realm of reality that he almost laughed.  Yet, even as he reveled in being with her, his mind kept drifting. Under the delicious cacophony of their tryst, he could hear the priest nearby, whispering to himself in a strange language as he prayed. The sounds blended in his mind, and the feelings thus inspired confused him.  

Lagertha noticed his distraction. "You keep looking over there. What is it you find so interesting?"

"Nothing." He turned back to her, stroking her face.

"You lie. But I understand. I find him interesting, too." She rolled off of him and propped herself on an arm. "He is strange, but he is also attractive."

Ragnar made a wounded noise. "More attractive than me?"

She punched his hip. "No. Never. It's just that he has such a lovely, gentle voice, and I wonder if perhaps he might . . . make some pretty noises."

Ragnar grinned. He had shared his wife with other men before; she was a passionate woman and difficult to satisfy, though that was one of her many charms. It wasn't a surprise she'd be curious about their young slave. "It's possible," he agreed. "His temple had no women. It might have been a long time since he has had any release."

"Unless he was finding release with the other priests." She winked at him. "In which case, perhaps it is you instead of I who could coax the pretty noises from him. That might be interesting to watch."

Ragnar squirmed, and to his shock, felt his cheeks flush. Lagertha would never accuse him of being ergi, and she was not doing so now. Still, he was unsettled. It was true Athelstan was as comely as a maid, with his innocent eyes and full lips, but he was not a maid. Unless his religion had practiced castration, he would still bear a man's parts at the junction of his thighs, however soft those thighs might be, and that was not a kind of sex Ragnar could have imagined desiring until now.

As with most men he knew, Ragnar had occasionally caressed a friend while they shared a woman, or offered a helpful hand on a long sail, but this wasn't the same thing. Athelstan was not a friend. He was not a war brother. He was not a Northman. He was a slave. A foreigner. A weak man. Appropriate for raping, should such a cruel fancy take him, but not for what Lagertha was suggesting. However much his body was betraying him, Ragnar couldn't reconcile a passion for this lesser creature with his own image of himself. Mostly, though, Ragnar simply didn't want the other men to be right if they had assumed that was the purpose for which he had saved the priest; he didn't like the idea that his intentions could be so easily read by others when he wasn't sure of them himself. There was still something beyond physical desire that compelled his interest and his need to keep Athelstan alive and in his service, but he didn't want that desire to be any part of the reason the priest was not laying at the bottom of the sea. "Don't be foolish," he finally managed to murmur.

Lagertha raised an eyebrow and nudged him. "Foolish? Oh, Ragnar. I saw how you looked at him: like you wanted to devour him in one bite. Don't lie and tell me you wouldn't. After all these years, I know the look of lust upon your face, even if it's not me you're lusting for." She leaned over, her breath hot in his ear. "Be honest, husband: you want to see what's under that roughspun robe as much as I do."

Ragnar threw his head back and growled low in his throat. "Stop!" he hissed. Yet he could not deny her words—and his body certainly could not.

She noticed the response. "See? I know you. This would tell me the truth even if your mouth did not." She continued teasing him. "I know you want him, and I want to see you have him."

Ragnar shut his eyes and tried to pretend he was somewhere else.

"Well?" she purred. "Shall we ask him?"

"Fuck you," he muttered darkly.

"No." She sat up, a feral smile across her flushed face. "Fuck _him_."


	3. The Sin of Onan

The first time he did it, he vomited.

When Athelstan's childhood at the monastery blended into adolescence, some of the elder brothers explained to him that sometimes, the devil comes into a man's dreams, and turns his body away from God. Some of the brothers told him not to fret, saying that as a man could not control his dreams, what happened within them was no grave sin. Still others, however, went beyond that, choosing to let the devil take over even in their waking hours. Once upon a rainy evening, he had seen Brother Edric hiding in a corner of the goat stall, habit hitched up around his hips and touching himself in a most unholy way. Athelstan should have said something to Father Cuthbert about it, but he didn't. Not then, not ever. He had his own demons to wrestle with—in particular the one that looked like Brother Edric himself. Each time when he awoke with a damp, sticky spot on his bedclothes, he scrubbed and scrubbed, telling the devil to leave him, to leave his body and his thoughts, and keep him pure.

As he grew, he managed to keep the thoughts at bay somehow. He channeled his energy into his work, into his prayer, and into the Word, and the devil mostly left him. When Brother Edric departed for a year's missionary work in Francia, it was made considerably easier, and Athelstan knew that was God's work in helping him stay righteous.

But then the devil came back, raging onto the shores of his island home, tearing down everything that he had ever used to shore up his strength against the faults and sins he had tried to cleanse. He came in the form of a tall, muscled man with eyes like a mountain lake, and hands … Athelstan couldn't stop thinking about his hands.

He had snuck glances at the pair through the gaps in the woven wall of the small home to which they had brought their slave. He couldn’t help it; they were nearly upon him as they rutted and growled. He tried to force himself to keep looking at the Gospel, at the words he had risked his life to save, but the sounds and the smells he could not turn away from, and they kept dragging his eyes back. When they invited him to their bed, cold fire ran through his veins. How could he have such fear and hatred of these murderous heathens, and yet still be unable to stop thinking about them? God had intervened that night, giving him the strength to tell his captors that he could not—telling them he didn't want to would have been a lie—but the damage had already been done. No amount of prayer or fumbling attempts to maintain his tonsure could chase these devils from his mind, and eventually, they took over.

Only a few weeks after the pair's return from their raiding holiday, after Ragnar had been cleared at his trial, and before the earl had raided their village, it became too much. The children were sound asleep, and the moon's white light sparkled through the cracks in the roof. Ragnar laughed—a deep, throaty sound—and Lagertha followed. Then she made quieter noises: Small, high, like the bleating of a newborn goat. He turned from the Word and looked through the gap.

Athelstan was utterly fascinated by what he saw. He had no idea what Ragnar could possibly be doing to her, but whatever it was, she liked it—she _loved_ it—and so did Ragnar.

The ache in his body became too much. The pain of it threatened to rot him from the inside out. Blurting the smallest of pleas to God to forgive him, he stuffed a hand into his breeches. Years of denial boiled over, and it seemed mere seconds before it was done—Ragnar hadn't even finished himself, yet. In the moment, it seemed all of heaven and its angels had taken up residence in his body, but in the stillness afterward, Athelstan's mind cracked. Reaching for the chamber pot beneath his pallet, he emptied his stomach, tears streaming down his face as he did.

It would be months before he had a chance to do it again.

The attack by the earl and the subsequent close quarters in Floki's cabin made it impossible to have any time alone. He had no privacy longer than what was needed to wash or to void his bladder or bowels. Not that it mattered to the others, of course. Floki and Helga—once with Torstein!—continued to do as they pleased, and once Ragnar began to heal, Lagertha attended to his pent-up needs. Athelstan's needs, however, went unsatisfied. As it was, he had lost some of the taste for the idea, becoming convinced that God had brought his wrath down upon Ragnar—upon one of the objects of Athelstan's sin—in punishment for it.

It wasn't until things had settled down again that the feelings came back. After Ragnar had become earl, after the grand funeral and the willing sacrifice of the slave girl, after the family had occupied the Great Hall and its living quarters, life became somewhat normal again, albeit a different kind of normal, and one he would never have imagined back in Lindisfarne. He had a better place to sleep, now: his own room, with a proper bed, and even a space under the floorboards where he could hide the cherished Gospel he had saved during the raid. Not that he had looked at it much these days. The Word was ever in his mind, but somehow his passion for it was fading. Even with the privacy and his changing heart, however, he couldn't yet bring himself to seek release. He had too good a life, now; he didn't want to risk angering God again.  

The family's newfound peace and prosperity and Lagertha's growing pregnancy had put everyone in a good mood. So good, in fact, that Ragnar's own libido had spiked, growing well beyond what Lagertha was able to handle with the delicate stomach and fatigue of her condition. To address the issue, he had taken to scurrying off to dark, little-used spaces in the early morning—speaking to the gods, he had told people.

Athelstan discovered Ragnar's true occupation one morning purely by accident, mistaking the rustling sounds for a goat that had gotten somewhere it didn't belong. He begged forgiveness for the intrusion, and made to leave, but before he got far, Ragnar called out to him, his voice low and teasing.

"Are Christians not allowed to do this, either?"

He cast his eyes down, trying to erase the image from his memory. "We . . . no. All of it—any carnal pleasure—is a sin, save that which is intended for creating children." He bit his lip. "And priests—monks—cannot do even that, so we are allowed none at all."

Ragnar snorted derisively. "What a horrible religion you have, Athelstan, that would not allow a man even the pleasures of his own hand. You're missing out. It's very nice."

"I know, but—"

He sat up. "Wait. You _know_? How would you know if you've never done it? Unless …" His eyes scanned Athelstan's face. "Oh, the gods are joking, you _have_."

Athelstan felt himself flush down to the soles of his feet, and he dropped into a strained silence.

"Was it only once? Twice? Perhaps when you were a boy? Did your god punish you for it?" Ragnar giggled.

Athelstan's jaw tightened. "If I am free to go, I will leave you to yourself." He turned again.

"Please don't go, yet." Ragnar said, his voice gentler this time. "I'm sorry if I upset you. It really is an important thing to you, I can tell. I should not joke."

"There's no harm done." Athelstan said flatly. "It's just not something I wish to talk about."

"I understand. Go, then. But if you ever do decide you want to talk to me about it—or about anything—you can. I can imagine that perhaps your fellow priests told you nothing about even your own body, and I find that a pity. I'd like to help you learn."

Athelstan glanced back up for a split second. Athelstan had seen Ragnar's nakedness many times before—in close quarters, caring for a badly wounded man, it was impossible not to—but somehow it seemed almost vulgar at this place and moment. A wave of nausea washed through him. "I appreciate the offer," he finally said, and took his leave.

That night, in the solitude of his sleeping chamber, he finally indulged again. It was different this time, however. The shame was still there, but something about Ragnar's words had changed things. Or perhaps it was just the memory, which he had not been able to dislodge from his brain, of seeing Ragnar engaged in the same act. Shocking as it had been at the moment, it nonetheless seemed normal somehow; natural, as if perhaps God had intended such possibilities merely by giving men arms long enough to reach. It did seem strange, he considered, that man had been given such an unruly piece of anatomy if he was not allowed even to touch it himself for any purpose of pleasure. He knew God placed temptation in the path of men to challenge them—to test their faith and devotion—but a temptation that was actually part of one's own body seemed downright cruel, and not something done by a loving god. The seed of doubt thus planted in his mind, his body relaxed, and when the moment finally arrived, he felt the wash of pleasure more fully, more completely than he had before, and with no subsequent need to retch. Indeed, he felt almost peaceful, and afterward, he slept more soundly than he had in the entire time he had been among the heathens.

When he awoke the next morning he was fully refreshed, rising even before the rest of the family and doing his rounds with the animals. Not long after, Ragnar rose himself. Striding across the hall to his private corner, he crossed paths with Athelstan. He smiled as he passed, and cocked his head.

"Good morning." His voice was still thick with sleep, his eyes half-lidded.

"And to you." Athelstan nodded.

"I'll be in the linen room, should you . . . need me for anything." Ragnar winked and strode away.

For a moment, Athelstan seemed frozen in place. Sometimes, it was difficult to discern exactly what Ragnar was saying, under his love for teasing and sarcasm, but this time seemed undeniably clear. With a rush in his chest and a hitch of breath, he followed.

 


	4. Not Enough

It had been only one time.

One time of Ragnar sitting next to him on a bench in a store room, his voice low and soft and his breathing heavy. One time of the new earl demonstrating ways in which a man could touch himself. One time of sitting there dazed, while Ragnar alternated between gently mocking him and kindly helping him tidy up and put himself back together. One time of Athelstan stumbling in a near-drunken stupor back to his room, his sense of self having been utterly, irrevocably changed.

One time was not enough.

It seemed he’d become obsessed with it, now. His vows long forgotten, every night before he fell asleep he remembered and practiced what Ragnar had taught him. Most mornings he relieved that need before he even relieved the pressure in his bladder. It had been more than a decade since his adolescence, but it felt like his body was changing all over again, and he was discovering it anew. Not the external changes of hair in new places and skin that erupted angrily, but internal, as if he had somehow grown a new organ in his belly where once was only a hollow space.

Yet even as his own skill grew with the constant practice, what echoed in his mind every time was the feeling of Ragnar’s touch, not his own, and it was a feeling he desperately wanted to experience again. So intense was his desire for this that he had started getting distracted when Ragnar was around, and would sometimes shiver at the smallest touch on his shoulder or arm.  It seemed preposterous that the man who once terrified and disgusted him, who had stolen him from his home and killed men he had long considered brothers, was now the subject of his most fevered needs, yet here it was. The hand that once had held a knife to his throat was the hand that had brought him the most pleasure he’d ever felt in his life. He hadn't truly felt like Ragnar's slave in several months—on the contrary, Ragnar had been showing him every courtesy and even affection. He had also made it clear to his subjects that they were to treat this member of the earl's household as respectfully as any other, and Athelstan had thus started feeling more like one of Ragnar's family than someone he owned. Still, this new feeling toward him was something else entirely, and something quite unsettling.

He tried to keep the obsession to himself—to keep it from interfering with his duties—and he certainly wanted to avoid Ragnar discovering what he’d been thinking. For all that he desired from the man, it was not something for which he could ever imagine asking. Despite the attempts at discretion, however, Ragnar noticed anyway.

“Are you well, Athelstan?” Ragnar frowned and mopped at his tunic, where Athelstan's shaking hands had deposited a few drips of ale from the pitcher he was holding. “It’s not like you to be clumsy.”

“I’m fine. Perhaps light-headed is all. I’ve not eaten quite enough today, I suppose.” Deep winter had begun to settle into Kattegat, and everyone was eating less, to save food for the long wait until spring. Food wasn't what he needed, however. "I'm sorry for the spill. If you bring it to me, I'll wash that tonight." He turned to go, to sit down in his customary chair opposite the new earl, but Ragnar grabbed his hand before he walked away. As the contact sent sparks up his arm, he grunted helplessly.

Ragnar raised an eyebrow. “And what was that?”

Athelstan’s heart raced. Lagertha was busily chiding the children for throwing food at each other and had not seen his reaction. Ragnar alone was aware. “Please,” he whispered.

Ragnar released his hand and let him go to his seat, but continued to stare at him curiously through the meal. More disturbing still, he seemed to be trying to do things to cause a reaction from his flustered servant. He slowly sucked the meat off a chicken leg, swirling his tongue around the bone. He stuffed a large chunk of carrot in his mouth whole. He ran his finger around his plate, scooping up the remaining juices and brought them to his lips. And then, to Athelstan’s shock, the edge of Ragnar’s boot traveled up the inside of his thigh under the table. He squirmed and backed away.

After the meal, the children were put to bed and Lagertha, complaining of a sore back, turned in early. Ragnar stayed up, staring contemplatively at the fire. After clearing the table, Athelstan bid him good night and went to his room. Just as he had taken off his shoes, however, Ragnar strode in and began removing his tunic.

Athelstan gaped. "What?"

"You asked me to bring this to you." Ragnar handed over the ale-stained garment.

"Oh! Yes. Thank you." Athelstan turned and dropped the item onto the foot of his bed. "Feel free to turn in. I'll make sure you have it by morning." He tried to keep his eyes turned down, but couldn't help sneaking glances at Ragnar's bare torso, muscles flexing under lightly furred skin. His body was crosshatched with scars, but he seemed all the more beautiful for them somehow.

Ragnar shrugged. "There's no rush. When you have the time will be fine."

"Don't worry. It will be done tonight." Athelstan insisted, his eyes still averted. "Sleep well."

Ragnar, however, didn't budge, his feet firmly planted on the floorboard under which Athelstan's neglected Scripture lay. He looked at Athelstan expectantly.

"Is there something else you need?" Athelstan asked.

“I was going to ask the same of you," Ragnar said. "You’ve been acting strangely for some time, and I think I now know why.”

Athelstan looked up, meeting his eyes, and found his soul being read by them. He blanched.

Ragnar strode around behind him. He leaned over, his breath hot on the back of Athelstan’s neck. “Would you like me to teach you more?”

Athelstan's mouth went dry and seemed incapable of forming sounds. He could only nod.

"I had been hoping so." He dipped his head, brushing a kiss against Athelstan's ear and chuckling when he shuddered. "This is going to get in the way of our lesson, though." Ragnar tugged on the edge of Athelstan's overshirt.

"Right. Uh . . ." Athelstan reached around and began fumbling with the laces on his belt.

Ragnar stilled his hands. "Let me help."

The moment his belt dropped to the floor, Athelstan's conscience came raging back and he turned. "What about Lagertha?" he bleated.

"She has not felt inclined to sex very much lately, I'm afraid. The son she carries is making things difficult for her this time. But I could go wake her and see if she's interested anyway."

"No! That's not—I wasn't thinking about her in that way." Athelstan tried to slow his heartbeat.

Ragnar stared as if Athelstan had just told him the Earth revolved around the sun. "Really? Why not? Do you not find her attractive?"

Athelstan shook his head. "I didn't mean to imply—that is, she's very attractive. Women, however—I don't know. This" he waved his hand in the air, unable to find the right word "is already incredibly strange for me. Women are something else entirely. I'm not . . . I'm not ready for that, I don't think."

"I see." The look on Ragnar's face made it clear that he didn't, actually.

"What I meant about her, though," Athelstan continued,  "is would she be upset about . . . whatever is happening here?"

Ragnar shrugged. "I doubt it. If you were a woman, she would have my balls for earrings. If you were any other man, she would wonder when I had grown soft. But you? No. You are no threat to her in any way. Did you know it was her idea to invite you to our bed in the first place?"

"Really?" Athelstan stared.

"She was also the one who pointed out my feelings for—well, that's not necessary to talk about." He flashed a lopsided smile. "Am I teaching you or not?" He snaked a hand under the edge of Athelstan's tunic.

Athelstan flushed, his mind suddenly dragged back to the activities at hand, and started unfastening his trousers. In only a few moments, both sets of clothes lay puddled on the floor, leaving them naked but for Ragnar's arm ring and Athelstan's crucifix, of which he was uncomfortably aware.

Athelstan felt like a mere hairless, unmuscled boy in comparison to Ragnar's body, and he was suddenly shy. His knees buckling, he sat down on the bed, his hands in his lap to cover himself, and shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"No." Athelstan shook his head, but then a draft of snow-chilled air filtered in from outside. "Actually, a little."

"Let me warm you, then." Ragnar sat beside him and rested a hand on his thigh.

It seemed only moments had passed when they both had finished, and Athelstan lay there breathless, the echoes of Ragnar's touch still sending sparks through him. Ragnar, considerably more at home with such pleasure, sat up on an elbow. Reaching to his other side, at the foot of the bed, Ragnar plucked up his soiled tunic and began clearing away the mess they had made.

"Oh." Athelstan winced.

"What? You were going to wash it anyway, were you not? Just boil it a little longer."

"Right." Athelstan began to sit up, though he wasn't sure at first if his muscles were capable of the burden.

Ragnar's eyes narrowed in the way they did when he had a clever idea. "Actually, don't."

"Sorry?"

"You can wash it if you like, I imagine. But you don't need to give it back. Keep it." He handed over the now-sticky garment.

Athelstan took it, spreading the fabric across his bare thighs. "Are you certain? Why?"

Ragnar smiled warmly at him. "When I am away from Lagertha, I take something of hers with me, and she keeps something of mine. The familiar smells keep us happy on those long nights. Perhaps that might be the same for you. I cannot stay here and sleep in your bed, but you could keep me nearby this way. If you want to remember me so, that is."

Athelstan brought the tunic to his face. Indeed, the scents—the spilled ale, a few drips of chicken grease, and the several different scents of Ragnar's body—instantly brought him to mind. "I'd like that. Thank you."

"All I ask is that you don't wear it. I don't think of you as a slave anymore—you know that—but the rest of the village, well, they would be . . . confused if the earl's servant suddenly started wearing his clothes."

Athelstan sighed, though not unhappily. "I understand."

In a few moments, Ragnar was dressed again, if sans tunic, and Athelstan was in his night clothes and under his blankets, a welcome warmth as the glow of passion left him and was replaced by the chill in the air.

"Ragnar," Athelstan called to him just before he left.

"Hm?"

"Is this . . . will we do this again?"

"Do you want to? I don't want you to feel like I expect this of you. This isn't part of your duties. I will only do what you want me to. But for my part, I would like it."

Athelstan shivered and snuggled down further into his bed. "I would, too."

"That's settled then. I'm glad. For now, I need to join my wife, however, so good night."

"And to you."

Ragnar glanced over his shoulder once as he left, favoring Athelstan with an almost childlike smile, and then disappeared into the shadows.

As he rolled over, expecting sleep to come quickly with his exhaustion, Athelstan noticed his body apparently had other ideas.

"Really?" He scolded his body. But he reached down anyway, and with his other hand, brought the tunic close to his face.

As the scent of their tryst filled his mind, and his pleasure rose, Athelstan laughed lightly. One time had certainly not been enough, and apparently, two times weren't, either. 


	5. Body Heat

No matter how closely Ragnar held her in his arms, or how many furs he piled on the bed; no matter how many bedwarming pans full of hot coals he slipped under the covers, Lagertha would not stop shivering.

It hadn't ceased snowing for three days in a row, and though the drifts served to insulate the building to a degree, the oppressive cold still seeped in through the cracks and chimney holes. Lagertha, her pregnancy already causing her exhaustion, pain and constant nausea, was now near freezing as well. Despite her attempts to remain stoic, and hide her suffering, Ragnar could see how badly off she truly was, and he worried.

"Would you like to sleep by the big fire in the great hall? I could build a bed for you there."

"No." She shook her head. "The smell from the pigs and goats makes me want to vomit. I must stay here."

"I don't know what else I can do to make you warm." He muttered into her soft, tangled hair. "I only wish there were two of me, so that I could wrap my arms around you from both sides."

"Wait." She pulled back. "That might help."

"What? Am I to split myself in half somehow?" He couldn't help a teasing grin.

"Much as that might amuse me, no. I was thinking we could bring someone else in to help warm the bed."

"Shall I wake the children?"

"They're in their own bed, and they took long enough getting to sleep tonight. I do not wish to wake them." She stroked his face with a chilly hand. "But I am reminded that someone else sleeps alone tonight, and perhaps he might wish to be warmer, too."

Ragnar twitched. Athelstan had gone to bed early, complaining of a back stiffened by the cold. Now that he realized the poor man was likely freezing, all alone under his thin pile of coverings, he felt heartsick that he hadn't raised the suggestion before.

Still, if Athelstan were to join them in the bed, Ragnar controlling his actions so as not to disturb his wife with them might be difficult. She had been, as he knew she would be, quite agreeable when he told her of his trysts with the priest, which were now happening regularly. She only made him promise to suggest again to Athelstan someday—when her body was no longer being so rudely claimed by the petulant child inside it—that they all share a bed. The sharing she suggested now wasn't like that, but Ragnar worried that he would be so beset by thoughts of the other kind that no-one would sleep that night.

However, her comfort was paramount—far more so than managing his libido—so he agreed. Slipping out, gasping as the chill hit him, he threw a thick lynx skin around his shoulders and quickly scurried to Athelstan's room.

The young man was sound asleep when he crept in the room, his breathing deep and even and his face placid. Ragnar had to smile. Ever since their journey back from England, he had enjoyed getting a chance to watch Athelstan sleep. As quiet and gentle as he was in his waking hours, he was even more so with his big, blue eyes closed and his lips barely parted. Of what did he dream? Ragnar wondered. Whatever glories his God had promised the faithful, he supposed. Although these days, he couldn't help hoping that he himself featured in those nighttime visions on occasion.  

He lay a hand on the gently moving lump of fur and blankets.

"Athelstan?" He whispered, keeping his voice low and soft. "May I wake you?"

The young man stirred, turning to face him, and his bleary, sleep-dusted eyes flipped open. "Ragnar? What is it? Is something wrong?"

"In a way, yes."

Athelstan sat up, groaning a little at stiff muscles. "What's the matter? How can I help?"

"It's Lagertha. I cannot warm her, and I worry about her becoming ill. She suggested that it might help to have someone else in the bed to add to what heat my body can give her."

Athelstan frowned. "I'm not sure I'm ready—wait. You're not asking for that, are you?"

Ragnar shook his head. "Much as I may like the idea, no. Not tonight at least. I just need her to be well, and I'm hoping you can help with that somehow."

"Of course. I've worried about her lately myself. She seems not to be eating much." Athelstan slipped on his boots and gathered his furs and blankets around him.

"That is her delicate stomach. It was easy when she carried Gyda. But though Bjorn roiled her stomach as well, it was never as bad as this. When I finally meet this new son of mine, I shall scold him for the misery he's brought his mother so far."

Athelstan stood, and Ragnar draped an arm around his shoulders as they braved the cold walk back to the earl's quarters. "I see now what you mean about your lands being harsh. We have deep winters in England, particularly the North, where I am from, but I've never experienced anything like this. It's no wonder you wish to settle elsewhere."

Ragnar chuckled. "In the glory of spring, there is nowhere else I wish to be, but every winter I hope to find a new land—perhaps one where they don't even have a word for snow."

Lagertha raised on an elbow as they came in. "Hello, Athelstan. Thank you so much for agreeing to come warm my bed."

"It is my pleasure," he said. "However I may be of help, I am happy to do so."

Ragnar dropped the lynx skin back on the bed, and quickly dashed back in. Lagertha whimpered slightly at the rush of coldness, but quickly moved toward him and into his arms.

"Come." Lagertha beckoned Athelstan to her other side, lifting the covers. After laying his own blankets atop the growing pile, he sidled in.

"I am sorry if my feet are cold, my lady."

She giggled girlishly. "They're not so bad. And having you near is helping."

Ragnar felt his heart swell with joy. He also felt some swelling in other places, but for the moment, having both of the people who laid claim to his love these days in the same bed was delightful. Still, Lagertha shivered, and he couldn't help the empty feeling of doubt and concern in his chest.

"Would you like me to move closer?" Athelstan asked. Ragnar could not see exactly how they were positioned, but it seemed Athelstan wasn't touching her.

"Yes. Please." She turned on her side, grunting some with the effort. "If you don't mind, could you put an arm around me?"

"Like this?" A rustle, and then he finally moved close enough that Ragnar could feel his position: close behind Lagertha, her body nestled into his, and his arm around her waist, palm resting on the side of her swollen belly.

Lagertha sighed happily. "Yes. Thank you."

Ragnar moved closer, too, kissing her worryingly cold cheek and molding his body around her belly. He slid a hand up from her hip, and placed it atop Athelstan's, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Are you warm enough yourself?" He asked, peering over Lagertha's shoulder at Athelstan's shadowed face.

"I am. When I was in my own bed, I actually wondered if my lips might freeze if they were too moist. This is nice. Thank you for inviting me. I hope this makes a difference."  

"It already is," Lagertha murmured sleepily. Her eyes fluttered closed, and Ragnar felt the stiffness begin to drain from her body. In a moment, however, she perked up again. "Oh!" She turned, looking back.

"My lady! I'm so sorry." Athelstan wriggled away, and removed his hand. "I didn't intend that."

"Didn't intend what?" Ragnar frowned.

Lagertha laughed and grabbed Athelstan's hand, putting it back where it was. "I'm not offended. I must say I'm even flattered. From what Ragnar told me, I didn't think you were interested, but clearly you are."

"Ah!" Ragnar giggled throatily as he realized what the poor priest's body must have done. Though the thought of it now made his own body respond in kind.

"I am so embarrassed," Athelstan whinged pathetically.

"You needn't be." She laced her fingers through his. "Were my body not so uncomfortable, I would enjoy helping you solve your problem. I am sorry I cannot."

"It is well enough. Honestly, I'm not sure I could—well. I'm just not sure I could." Athelstan sighed, apparently relieved that he would not be expected to learn how to navigate his way around the body of a woman—and a pregnant one at that—on the spot.  

"Will you be all right?" Ragnar asked, placing his hand atop theirs and stroking their fingers tenderly.

"Yes." Athelstan's voice was still tight, but he was beginning to sound more calm. "If you remember, I spent more than 10 years learning how to control myself. I can do so now."

"I will make it up to you. I promise. I'll even teach you more new things."

"Ragnar!" Athelstan grumbled in frustration and squirmed. "That's actually not helping."

All three burst into giggles, and then Ragnar felt something lovely under his lips: Lagertha's cheek, formerly so cold he wondered if it might gather frost, was now back to a normal temperature. Indeed, her whole body seemed to be. Her breath was no longer freezing in his face, and her hand, nestled between theirs, was downright warm. All tension had left her limbs, and finally, for the first time in weeks, she seemed back to her old, sure self.

As if to confirm that all was indeed well, a small lump pushed up from her belly, shoving aside their hands.

Athelstan, whose hand was on the bottom, barked in surprise. "What was that?"

"That was my son!" Ragnar cried, bringing both his hands around to cup his wife's belly and looking down. "Hello, little one!"

Lagertha moved Athelstan's hand back over the spot. Sure enough, another quick push met their touch. "I had felt him quicken a few weeks ago, but this is the first time he's moved enough to be felt from the outside. To be honest, he has been so quiet that it worried me some."

"I had no idea they did that!" Athelstan's voice was filled with wonder as he caressed the area.

"That's how we know the pregnancy is progressing as it should," Ragnar said. "If there is no movement, it is a sign that the baby may not be alive or may otherwise have something wrong. I am very glad to know he is active, as much trouble as he has given us."

"I am glad to know it, too," Athelstan agreed, "even if the feeling is so strange to me."

"Imagine how strange it is from my perspective!" Lagertha teased. She rolled over onto her back, stretching a little to give the baby more room to move. Her voice grew quiet again. "I'm glad you were here for this, Athelstan. I think you helping me get warm is what encouraged the baby to kick. You have brought me much joy." She turned and kissed his forehead.

"And I as well." Ragnar reached over her and stroked Athelstan's cheek.

"You are both most welcome. I feel honored to be here." He moved closer again, and nestled his head on Lagertha's shoulder.

She murmured happily and petted his head. "If you both don't mind, however, I'm relaxed enough now that I'm feeling my eyes close on their own. I need rest to face another day of this child, especially now that he will be trying to bruise me."

"Of course, my love." Ragnar leaned over to kiss her mouth, delighting in the healthy warmth of it.

"Indeed," Athelstan added. "Sleep well, my lady. We shall be here when you awake."


	6. Spring Fever

After the longest winter Athelstan ever could have imagined, it felt very, very good to have the sun on his face again. The once barren and snow-buried landscape around Kattegat had come alive: buds on trees had exploded into flurries of pink, white, and yellow flowers. Fields of daisies and red clover sprinkled the hillsides, and fat bumblebees buzzed from blossom to blossom. The branches of Rhododendron and azalea had shot up and though their own buds were still tightly closed, they hinted at more beauty to come. The animals, too, were excited at the change in weather. The goats, pigs, and other livestock leapt excitedly when they were finally allowed to roam their outdoor enclosures, and had begun courting each other in earnest. The trumpeting and birdsong in the forests told of still more. The whole world, it seemed, had come alive and was blissfully, exuberantly in love. He understood the feeling.

One bright April morning, Ragnar came bounding into his room bearing an armful of supplies, which he dumped unceremoniously on Athelstan's bed.

"Whoa!" Athelstan narrowly missed being thunked on the head by a quiver full of arrows. "What's all this?"

"Hunting gear." Ragnar beamed. "The rivers are running and the animals are out in the open, just waiting to be taken by our bows and blades."

"I thought hunting was best done in autumn?"

"It is. But there are useful prey to be found at this time, too, and they are far easier to hunt, as they are busy seeking food and mates." He grinned. "Besides: I need the fresh air and so do you."

"I cannot argue on that point." Athelstan smiled, and began gathering things up into a pack. "Who will be joining us? Torstein? Arne?"

"Neither, and no one. It is just we two. Just you and I."

"Why?"

Ragnar closed the distance between them, and leaned into his neck to nip at his ear. "Because the animals are not the only ones looking for quiet places to mate."

 

Having spent the majority of his life on an island, wielding brush and quill rather than bow or blade, proper hunting was not part of Athelstan's skills. As they traipsed through the hillsides, Ragnar taught him how to look for signs and tracks indicating what animals might be nearby, and coached him on being stealthy. He also had to give him some guidance in how to use the bow they had brought; his first shot, at a brace of grouse, went wildly off course, scattering the birds into the air.

The time spent on this education meant that no prey was captured by the time the sun was high, yet they had both grown weary and needed a rest and a bit of food. Climbing up to a shady spot overlooking a swiftly crashing waterfall in the distance, they rested while Athelstan assembled a small meal of dried meat, honey-preserved berries, bread, and a small crock of thick butter. A tankard full of clear water from a nearby stream completed the spread.

"Thank you," Ragnar said between bites. "For the meal, and for coming with me today."

Athelstan sipped at the water and smiled. "My pleasure."

Ragnar raised an eyebrow. "Speaking of your pleasure. . ." He lobbed a crust in Athelstan's direction.

"Yes?" Athelstan played coy.

"My belly is not all that needs feeding." Ragnar licked his lips.

Meeting the steady gaze with one of his own, Athelstan dropped his voice. "And my mouth wants more than food."

In moments, their repast forgotten, the two were half disrobed and rolling around on the soft, grassy ground.

"How would you like me?" Athelstan murmured as they peeled away each other's clothing.

"I want all of you," Ragnar growled, and slipped a hand down Athelstan's back. " _All_ of you. Please."

Perhaps it was the warmth of the air, or sweet scent of the flowers, or the freedom of being so far away from the village, but the idea for once did not unsettle Athelstan.  Instead, he found himself seeking more of Ragnar's touch. "All right," he finally breathed. "I will do it."

Ragnar pulled away for a moment, searching his face. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes. Only . . . I'm still not sure what to do."

"Then we will go slowly."

The act itself was actually awkward in some ways, but to Athelstan it was so very much more than just a new kind of being close with the man he loved. The innocent monk he had been was no more. He had succumbed, willingly, to the desires of this heathen, had opened himself up, body and soul, and allowed Ragnar in. When first he had contemplated the act, he thought he might be afraid, or that guilt or a desire to atone for the sin would dampen any possible pleasure. Yet he felt none of this, instead giving himself over to the carnal bliss.

When it was all finally done, the world seemed oddly still. They disengaged carefully, and he lay there on his back, staring at the sparks of sunlight filtering through the trees and listening to the rhythmic crashing of the waterfall. He felt utterly at peace, as if he were one with the earth and sky; an oddly spiritual feeling given the sin he had just committed. Ragnar lay on his side, staying close and dropping gentle kisses across his flushed skin, for once just letting the quiet sounds of the forest surround them. When they felt capable of moving, they took to the stream for a quick, cold dip, and then dressed and finished their meal.

The journey back was a little uncomfortable, as his muscles returned to their normal state, but by the time they had returned to Kattegat, all was well. Indeed, Athelstan thought he might be able to try again soon, and looked forward to an encore.

Explaining away their unsuccessful hunt took a little doing. Ragnar made some excuse about the animals dodging all of their shots, and Athelstan tried gamely to back up his story. Still, he thought with a smile as they parted ways for their evening's duties, at least one arrow had certainly found its mark.  



	7. Ergi

The past several months had seen a drastic change in Athelstan, both physically and mentally. It hadn't even been a year, yet since he was captured at Lindisfarne and brought to this wild place by these wild people, and yet he had already begun to feel as if he belonged there somehow. The language and religion still were not native for him, and he supposed they never would be. Some of the village's residents also still viewed him with suspicion and contempt, despite their earl's order that they treat Athelstan as a member of his household, rather than a common slave. Mostly, however, he felt like he had settled in, and found a space in which he fit. He even had his own place during sessions of court: at the bottom step of the dais, near the children. Not one of the noble family, no, but clearly someone the earl respected and consulted; a position of honor.

Of course, few people knew exactly what other positions the earl often had him in.

Though the initial roughness of Lagertha's pregnancy had passed, and she and Ragnar were now coupling regularly again, his desire for Athelstan had not dampened. If anything, their ardor continued to build, and Athelstan often found himself dragged off to a quiet, secret place during the day, or awakened at dawn so that they might have a few moments of carnal bliss without drawing the suspicions of others. So far, only Lagertha knew, though Athelstan thought Bjorn might be figuring it out. They also once had to explain away a passionate clinch as mere wrestling when Torstein happened upon them behind the horse barn. He had initially looked confused and skeptical, but eventually accepted the lie. Only their recent tryst near the waterfall had been experienced in full abandon. Every other time was always furtive, always shadowed, and it had begun to wear on him.

"I don't understand why we must hide all the time," Athelstan told him after yet another near miss, this time with Leif, who was trying to find where his mother had got to and for some reason thought the milking shed was a possibility. Only the fact that they were already finished and were nearly dressed again saved them from being caught. "I thought your people weren't concerned with marital fidelity."

"We are concerned with it, actually." Ragnar fastened his breeches and rubbed a hand across his face. "Though it's mostly a matter of honor and ensuring that people know who is the father of any children. Our women know ways to avoid pregnancy, so if she eats the right herbs and roots, she may be with other men without worry, so long as her husband agrees. Some men and women prefer to think that they own each other, which is their right, but others choose differently. Both ways are common. The matter of heirs is all that is really important."

"Well, pregnancy is no issue for us, obviously, and Lagertha is agreeable, unless she has changed her mind and not told me. Honestly, she keeps teasing me with suggestions of what might happen after she's recovered from the birth of your son, so her will seems inclined toward us."

"It is true," Ragnar said, beaming. "She sometimes even asks me to tell her what we do. It excites her, so I tell her every detail."

Athelstan's eyes grew big.

Ragnar laughed and ruffled his hair. "You are still so easy to shock."

Athelstan released a breath and rolled his eyes. He finished lacing up his belt and straightened the hem of his overshirt. "Lagertha aside, then, is the problem because I'm your servant, perhaps?"

Ragnar nodded. "In part, yes. Free men and women may use thralls at their pleasure, but what we have is not like that; I would not do this against your will, nor would I if I believed you were doing it mainly to serve me. In this we are equals, and that makes it different, in a way some would not like. Many people believe I am debasing myself even to call you a friend and companion, much less to seek your advice as my steward. That you are a foreigner and a Christian only makes matters worse—they believe I may be growing disloyal to our people by showing favor to an outsider."

"I see. That makes sense. In that case, though, why not give me legal freedom? If I am free, and officially call myself a Northman, surely it would not matter if we were . . . friends."

Ragnar stared into the distance, his eyes narrowing and his jaw growing tense. "That brings up the other part. It is not only that you are not free. It is that you are a man."

Athelstan frowned. "Is it? I know Christians aren't supposed to do what we do—well, we're not supposed to have any pleasures of the flesh, much less these things called sins against nature—but I thought it was different here. I thought even Floki and Torstein had—"

"No." Ragnar shook his head. "A woman shared between Northmen isn't the same thing. If I were only sharing Lagertha with you—and if you were one of our people and a free man—no one would think twice. Men in such encounters may, if they are inclined, touch each other to some degree during them, but an encounter without a woman involved would be very questionable. What you and I have recently begun to do is looked down upon even more. We have a word for men who serve other men this way: _ergi_. They are men who behave like women: Men who practice the magic of women, who are not strong, who cannot lead, who cannot hold a shield or axe. They are men who do not father sons. These men are shunned—often even killed. Only those rare ones who have a gift for prophecy, like our Seer, are allowed to remain members of our community, and even then they are avoided. They are not part of our families. It is of vital importance to our survival as a people that our men be strong and able to hold our lands while taking what we need from others. We do not have room for men who are weak."

"Surely you're not this . . . _ergi_ , though. You're not weak." Athelstan looked Ragnar up and down. The tall, muscled man with the strong jaw and piercing gaze struck fear in all who would oppose him. He was a born leader and a skilled warrior, not one who could ever be thought of as a lesser man. "How could anyone think you are?"

"I'm not, no, but. . . ." He looked over, meeting Athelstan's eyes.

A wave of nausea filled his belly as the understanding came upon him. " _I_ am."

Ragnar smiled sadly.

Athelstan went quiet as he considered Ragnar's words. Suddenly, it all made sense. The contempt he had been shown by the other Northmen wasn't just a matter of him being a foreigner or a Christian, or even a slave. It was because he had lived in a monastery, and had never touched a woman. It was because he was an artist and an educated man, instead of a warrior. It was because he had learned the ways of languages instead of blades. All of these things made him this lesser creature in the eyes of these people even without them knowing of the acts that sealed it; without them knowing that he not only allowed Ragnar the use of his body, but desired it. To the Northmen, he wasn't just enjoying the company and pleasure of a friend, but surrendering to the will of another man without even fighting back to prove his strength.

If Ragnar were to give him his legal freedom, it would become clear to all exactly how much he mattered to the earl, and exactly how much their leader was lowering himself to be close to such a contemptible man. Alone, Ragnar would never be thought of thus, but coupled with his soft, gentle priest, he may as well be even if no one ever knew of the bliss they shared in private moments. Ragnar was taking an enormous risk even letting the man be a part of his household and mind his children. If anyone knew of the rest of their relationship, all—perhaps even including his own life, and certainly Athelstan's life—would be lost.

Ragnar spoke up again. "I am sorry that things must be like this. I wish they were different. I wish that I could proclaim my feelings for you to all. By the gods, I wish that I could somehow take you to wife. Some earls and other men of power have more than one, after all. But my people would allow me a thousand women before they would allow me one man, and so we must always only be friends every time but when we are alone."

"I understand. I do not like it, but I do understand." Athelstan sighed. "I have one question, though."

"Yes?"

"Do you think of me this way? Do you think that I am a lesser man because I am not like you—not strong, not a warrior?"

After a quick glance around to be certain they were truly alone, Ragnar turned to him and placed a hand on his cheek. "Athelstan, you are unlike any person—man or woman—I have ever known. You have opened up to me a world I never before knew existed. Not just the lands and customs and language of your people, but that there are more ways of being than just the life I knew. I am a farmer and a warrior. You are not those things, but you are so many others that I cannot help but be in awe. It is true that there are times I wish you knew how to fight, if only to be able to protect yourself should you be attacked. I worry that you being who you are may someday get you killed by someone who does not understand and care for you the way I do." He paused, and pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen into Athelstan's eyes. His tonsure long filled in, he was now growing out his hair and beard in earnest, though managing them had been challenging. He understood why the Northmen wore plaits, and looked forward to having the length for such himself.

"I do not care whether you are _ergi_ or as powerful as Thor himself," Ragnar continued. "I care only about the person who lives inside you. You are a different man, and to some, different means wrong. To me, however, it means the world is a much bigger place than I had ever imagined, and that only makes me want to explore it more. For all that my people consider me strong, in the face of your knowledge, I have felt weak. You could never best me in battle, but you are teaching me that battle is not the only way that a man can have value. Perhaps it is for this reason that I love you, and hope you feel the same for me."

Athelstan was suddenly shy, and looked away. Though the man now knew every part of his body very well, it seemed Ragnar also knew his soul. It was unsettling, but also flattering. For perhaps the first time in his life, he started wondering whether he might someday be fit for more than service to someone else, whether church father, earl, or even God. In his old life, pride was a sin, yet a rush of it had lifted his heart. "Thank you," he finally said. "And I do feel the same. I love you." Drawing Ragnar's face down, he kissed him soundly.

After parting reluctantly, they began the short walk back to the great hall.

"I will be leaving soon," Ragnar said, reaching out to pat a goat as they passed the pen.

"I know."

"Does it bother you? That I will be going back to your country to raid again?"

Athelstan thought for a moment. "Yes and no. I would hope that you do not kill people unless you have to, and that you take only what you need. I certainly hope that you come back to me alive and well. But the longer I spend here, the less I feel like England is my home anyway. I may not ever be the kind of Northman your people would automatically respect, whether I am free or no, but I am starting to feel like I someday may at least be closer to that. You say you have enjoyed learning from me, but I am also enjoying learning from you."

Ragnar elbowed him in the side and chuckled. "I know." 

Athelstan flashed a shy grin. "Not just that."

"I knew what you meant. And I am glad. If we are teaching each other, perhaps we are both learning ways to be different men than the ones we thought we were, and perhaps we will both be stronger for it." Boldly, Ragnar slipped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. "If in both of us grows my strength and your wisdom, who could then oppose such men?"

 


	8. The Short Lives of Birds and Bees

"You sent for me, my lady?" Athelstan stood at the door to the earl's private quarters. He looked hesitant—nervous, even—though that was to be expected under the circumstances.

Only two days previous, he had been abed with her at her request. She did not want to worry the children, and still did not trust Siggy, so when her discomfort began to increase on a late evening, she asked him to lay with her; to help soothe her pain and fear with a gentle embrace and kind words, the way he had the night that she was so cold. He was happy to help—indeed he seemed grateful for the company himself, given that Ragnar was away and most others still avoided him or treated him with contempt. He even sang her a soft, mesmerizing melody in an unfamiliar language. Latin, he had called it, telling her that it was the main language of his people's holy stories. Not long after they had fallen asleep, arms entwined, she woke him with screams, and a river of thick blood soaking into the bed. He went scrambling for help, and had seemed in shock ever since.

She gave him a smile she hoped looked welcoming. "Athelstan. Thank you for coming. I know you're busy."

"It is no trouble. How can I help you?" He fidgeted, tugging at his sleeves

"Elisef and her healing women are still tending to me, but they are away at the moment helping a child with a broken arm. Siggy has been by my side since it happened, so I sent her home to sleep. And the children were restless from being inside for so long, so I told them to go practice their archery. If your afternoon isn't otherwise spoken for, I would like a companion for a while."

"I've just been doing some mending today. I could put that aside for now."

"I would be grateful. Thank you."

"Is there anything I can get you? Are you hungry?"

"No. I don't need food or drink right now. Just be here with me, please." She nodded toward the end of the bed, moving her legs aside to give him a place to sit.

"Of course." He sat gingerly on the edge.

"We haven't really talked since . . . it happened. I'm sure it was very upsetting for you."

He frowned. "My being upset should be the least of your concerns. You should be focusing on resting and recovering."

She smiled thinly. "That's kind of you to say, but it's important to me to make sure you're well, too. The women I have around me all understand these things. Even Bjorn understands some; he was a small child when Gyda was born, but he remembers being there when I brought her forth. We have always been honest with the children, and that includes being honest about our bodies and their differences. But you . . . your first introduction to the mysteries of a woman's body should not have come like this." She gave him a gentle nudge with her knee. "I imagine it has frightened you off of us for good."

He flushed and looked away. "I don't—that's—"

"Relax, Athelstan. I was joking."

He turned back and smiled—the first genuine smile she'd seen from him in days. "I appreciate your concern—and your humor. It's really nothing, though. This is my own trouble that I must work out by myself."

"If that's what you want, then so be it, but if you do have questions, I am happy to answer them."

He shrugged. "I admit there are some things about which I am curious, but you don't have to explain them to me now."

"Things like what?"

"Well," he hummed thoughtfully for a moment, "like how a woman knows she is with child in the first place—or how she knows she is not. Or how she makes certain she won't be if she doesn't want to be. Ragnar said something about herbs, I think, but I didn't ask further. I know some because I helped tend the animals at the monastery, and they of course mated and gave birth, but it's very different with people."  

"It is, yes. For one, we humans live longer, and our lives are focused on more than just surviving long enough to make children—that changes rather a lot." She grinned. "I can answer all of those questions—and any others—if you want to know."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Are you certain you wouldn't rather be resting?"

"I am grown bored of lying here staring at the walls. It would make my healing easier if I felt as if I had something useful to do."

He hesitated, chewing his bottom lip. Finally, he nodded. "All right. I'm listening."

For the better part of the afternoon, she explained everything to him: all the things she told her children as they were growing up; all the things that any child of her people would have known well before their bodies matured. She explained pregnancy and birth. She explained a woman's moon cycles. She even explained to him, with a level of detail he found both fascinating and frightening in equal measure, what parts of a woman's body brought her pleasure and how. He in turn told her about how few memories he had of his mother and family; how the last time he had embraced any woman was the day they gave him away. He told her how upsetting it was when his body started changing and some of the brothers made him feel as if those changes were somehow evil creeping in. He also told her how grateful he was that Ragnar had done so much to help him finally feel at peace with his own flesh, instead of hating it for its mortal failings, though he again made her assure him that she was not upset at the time her husband spent with him.

Odd as it was, teaching the sheltered priest such basic knowledge made her forget about her own pain and loss, and about how her body, so strong and sure before, had betrayed her so cruelly. Eventually, however, the subject did return to that, when she came to the explanation of how a woman's body changes again when she grows older.

"I knew it was a risk," she said, her quiet voice evidence of her growing weariness.

"Knew what was a risk?"

"As women age, sometimes we have difficult pregnancies—well before we cannot get pregnant again at all. We are told by our mothers and the midwives that it is best to have our children early, when our bodies are young and resilient, and we can more quickly recover from birth, and so I did. I spent my early youth training and fighting in the shield wall, yet I was still but 22 when I carried Bjorn. Not very young, no, but still young enough. After Gyda was born, Ragnar still wanted more sons, so we kept trying, but it did not happen. We had already come to accept that we would have only two children when I realized I was expecting again. I have felt perfectly strong and healthy all these years—getting to raid with Ragnar last summer was very exciting for me—so I thought I could escape any problems that might come with being somewhat older. It seems the gods had other ideas."

"I am truly sorry, my lady. I cannot imagine the grief and pain you must feel. I have come to care very much for Bjorn and Gyda, but I have never otherwise known what it is to love one's own child, and therefore how hard it must be to lose one."  He lay a hand on her leg, patting it gently.

She reached for the hand, lacing her fingers with his. "I just don't know what I have done that would make the gods so angry with me that they needed to take this child from me. I am also dreading having to tell Ragnar the news when he returns. The seer told him he would have more sons, yet I don't know now how I am supposed to give him any. I am afraid . . ." she closed her mouth tightly.

"Afraid of what?"

"I am afraid he might blame me—that he might think somehow I was at fault for losing the child."

"I cannot see why he would think such a thing. He loves you. He is devoted to you. He would not blame you for something you could not help. You said yourself that women sometimes lose their pregnancies for no reason other than fate."

"That is true. I just wonder if I've missed something—if there was something I may have done without thinking that may have offended the gods. Perhaps they wished I had been more faithful, or that I had sacrificed something more—" she stopped short, staring at the hand she held, and tried to tell herself that she had not just had that thought. She looked up, into those innocent eyes, and her stomach recoiled. "Uppsala," she whispered, almost under her breath.

"My lady?" he said, a note of alarm in his voice. "Is everything all right?"

She rubbed a hand across her face, and finally she started breathing normally again. "I'm fine, Athelstan. Just a . . . momentary pain. I will be well enough soon. Perhaps it is time that I rest again, however."

"I'm certain it is. I appreciate what you have taught me, but I have kept you talking far too long."

She held onto his hand as he rose. "Thank you for staying here with me. It has done me a great deal of good."

He squeezed her hand, and then let it go. "It was my pleasure. If there is anything that can make things better for you, I will do it gladly."

She gave him a sad, wistful smile. "I will keep that in mind."


	9. Rite of Refusal

The Passion had always upset Athelstan when he was a young monk. He’d had nightmares about it, even. Knowing how much Jesus had suffered—in gruesome detail—had strengthened his faith over the years, but the thought of it still disturbed him. He wondered how horrible it might be to be beaten so harshly, to have nails pounded through one’s hands and feet, to hang there, slowly bleeding to death while the agony of it all continued.

Yet now that event seemed abstract and detached, when compared to the sacrifices he had witnessed in person at Uppsala—sacrifices of which he should have been part. No, the men who died were not beaten or tortured, and they had welcomed their deaths in service of their gods, but being only a few steps away as Leif’s throat was opened was far more real and frightening than his mere imaginings of Jesus’ more-brutal death.

What wounded him even more deeply, however, was knowing that people he thought loved him—people he considered family—had wished him to die this way. For Lagertha’s part, he understood: she had not been the same since losing her baby. She was still a strong, stoic woman in many ways, but emotionally she seemed frozen. She had withdrawn from both him and Ragnar—indeed from all but her children—and her expressions always seemed awash in desperation. That she would consider sacrificing a slave, friend though he may be, made sense. Ragnar’s motivations, however, he understood far less. He was just as devastated by the loss of his son as Lagertha had been, but his love for Athelstan, at least, had never faded; if anything, it had grown stronger. He had welcomed and encouraged Athelstan’s increasing interest in assimilating to their culture and beliefs. Ragnar had given him higher status, greater responsibility, and finer clothes and other adornments to signal to all that he was no longer the common slave most had thought him to be. Too, their lovemaking continued apace, and Ragnar had even been emboldened enough to spend the occasional night in Athelstan’s bed, his concern about their being discovered disregarded in favor of the joy and comfort of waking up in each other’s arms. That this man who had so demonstrated his love all this time had also plotted to have him killed made Athelstan’s head and stomach spin.

And so, once again he found himself thinking about Jesus’ last days, and wondering if the Savior had loved Judas as much as he had loved Ragnar. Being a Christian had saved his life, and perhaps now it was Jesus’ sacrifice which should be foremost in his mind. The gods of the Northmen wanted his death. The sacrifice his God wanted had already been made by another. The least he could do was honor that sacrifice with his own renewed devotion, however surrounded he might still be by these heathens.

He knelt at his bed to pray.

“Athelstan?” Thyri’s soft voice interrupted his fervent murmurings.

He turned, his cheeks hot. “What is it?” He tried not to sound as angry as he felt.

“I just . . . wanted to know if you needed anything; if there was anything I could, well, _do_ for you before I go back home for the night.”

He scanned her face. Her meaning was clear: she wanted a repeat of their night together—the night before he was to be sacrificed. Looking at her, with her long hair draped over her shoulders and her full mouth open, his libido reacted predictably. His lesser self well remembered the feeling of her buttery soft skin and the heat of her body. His heart, however, was sickened by the very idea of sex—with her or anyone else. “I have returned to the vows of my faith,” he said firmly. “I want nothing from you, Thyri.”

“Oh.” She looked hurt. “Good night, then.” She turned to go.

Much to his annoyance, his tender heart kicked in, and he felt guilty for being so harsh with her. “Wait.” He rose and sat on the bed. “Come back, please.”

Gingerly, she came forward and sat next to him where he patted the bed. “You’re still upset, aren’t you?”

“That’s observant of you.”

“I’m sorry.” She stared at the floor. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You knew about it, didn’t you? The sacrifice, I mean. That’s why you—why we—why that happened.”

She nodded. “I did know, and I was asked—Ragnar asked me—to prepare you, and to give you a nice memory to carry with you to the altar. But I also did it because I wanted to. I’ve been attracted to you for some time, and I was glad to be able to be with you, even if it was just the once. I did not lead you on falsely, in other words. My intents were genuine.”

“Well, thank you for that, I suppose.”

She caught his eye. “One thing I did not know, however, was that he had not told you—that he didn’t even ask to be sure you were offering yourself willingly. And in that, I’m sure I am at least as angry as you are.”

“Why should you be angry? It was not you he wanted to kill.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. At least he was getting some sympathy, and not just the avoidance and thin jokes Ragnar had offered in the wake of the event. He hadn’t even stayed back in Kattegat long enough for them to talk about it before he was off again, running an errand of diplomacy for the king.

“I’m sure you feel betrayed, and you have cause to feel that way.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. “My anger is more than that, though. By not making sure that you wanted this, Ragnar put us all at risk. Leif’s sacrifice was generous of him, but it was not as things were planned. The gods may yet be angry with our house.”  

“And if they are, what am I to do about it?” He raised an eyebrow. “Shall I renounce my faith and offer my sacrifice again? I cannot force myself to believe something I do not. Surely an unwilling sacrifice wouldn’t be enough to appease them.”

“No. That’s unlikely. I do not think you need to worry any longer that your life will be demanded in service to the gods.”

“Well, that is some comfort. Not that it matters much, I suppose.” He shrugged. “My life already has been claimed in their names anyway.”

“How do you mean?”

“I have no life that is my own any longer,” he said. “Ragnar stole me from my home. He killed men I loved—men I knew as brothers. He forced my faith out of me and forced me into his service. My life has always been devoted to others, but at least when I was monk, it was my choice to serve. I could not have left my faith without consequence—I could not be an apostate—but I could have left the priesthood if I wanted to. Being raised in the monastery was not my choice as a child, but as a grown man, I chose to serve God. Ragnar, though, made certain I had no choice to make. I could serve him, or I could die, either by his hand or by being unable to survive in this land on my own. A false choice if ever there was one.”

“I see. And was it Ragnar’s will that you now dress this way?” She nodded to his embroidered tunic and the metal ornament in his beard. “Did he force that upon you, too?”

“I—“ He fumbled with the edge of the garment, confusion filtering into his mind again.

“Did he say you could not eventually buy your freedom as other thralls often do? Did he force you to advise him on political matters? Did he force you to love his children, to love Lagertha and care for her after she lost her baby? Did he force you to love _him_?”

He blanched. The look on her face made it clear that she knew that he and Ragnar had been intimate. How long she had been aware, he didn’t know. Still, her knowledge made him turn away in shame.

“Athelstan, I know very well what it feels like to be forced to marry someone—to have sex with someone—entirely against your will. I cannot tell you the joy and delight I felt when my mother plunged that dagger into my husband’s vile heart. And while I recognize that you are technically Ragnar’s slave, he has not regarded you as such in all the time I have known you. I know how slaves are usually treated by their masters here, and I know you aren’t treated that way at all. Yes, you were taken captive and brought here as Ragnar’s property, but I very much doubt that’s what you are in anything more than name alone. I was more a slave to my father than you have ever been to Ragnar.”

He set his jaw, unable to counter anything she was saying, and tried to blink back the angry tears welling up in his eyes.

“You say that you freely chose to serve your god, yes?” she continued. “You chose a life devoted to another. It is undoubtedly in your nature to do so. Don’t confuse your own need to serve with another’s desire to make you do so against your will. You are not a child. You are not a man of simple mind, easily led to act against your interests. You are not a foe who has been conquered on the battlefield and must submit to the victor’s whims. What you do for your god, you do out of love, not obligation. Why can it not be the same for Ragnar?”

He huffed in frustration. “My god did not demand that I die for him. He welcomes willing martyrs—those who choose to die in service of their faith—but he does not force people to die against their choice. We were all saved by one sacrifice; he has no need to force others.”

“Ragnar didn’t force your death, either, if you remember. He could have killed you when they raided your temple, but he spared your life—yours, specifically.”

“Apparently only so he could spend years stealing my friendship and service and then kill me later.”  

She sighed heavily. “I understand that you’re upset. I do. You were deceived by people you love. That hurts no matter how big or small the betrayal. I understand that you are shocked and fearful because you narrowly escaped death. But do not let that color the entirety of your experiences here, and lead you to think things about us that are not true. Just as my actions toward you were not borne out of malice or dishonesty, it’s likely that neither were Ragnar’s. The man killed my father and yet I’ve come to admire him anyway. Are you more unwilling than I to be of an open mind?” Her voice softened, and she lay a hand on his arm. This time, he let it stay. “He loves you. Anyone who has spent more than a day observing your interactions could tell that. Don’t be so quick to throw that away before you at least try to understand why he did what he did.”

He brushed away a few hot tears that had spilled down his cheeks. “And why do you think he did it? If he loved me so much, why did he want to kill me? If I mattered so much more to him than a common slave, why would he be so quick to lose me?”

“That, Athelstan, is a question for him when he returns.” She stood, aiming for the doorway. “I understand that you have again devoted yourself to your faith, and I won’t ask anything else of you, but for one thing: that you give him—give all of us here—the benefit of the doubt. You once told me that Christians place much importance on forgiveness. Perhaps that’s the part of your faith in which you should now invest.” 


	10. Atonement

The face of the man coming up the hill was welcome. The look upon it was not.

“Torstein!” Ragnar called out as he approached. “What’s wrong? You look troubled.”

“Not here,” he hissed, and dragged Ragnar off to the side while the rest of the recruits he had brought from Kattegat and the surrounding territory filed into the war camp.

“What? What’s happened?” His blood had already begun to curdle in his veins.

His mouth trembled as he spoke. “When . . . when I delivered Bjorn back to Kattegat, I learned terrible news. Ragnar. I’m so sorry. There was a plague, and—“

“A plague?”

“A fever. It swept through the town without warning and without mercy. Some people made it through, but many did not.”

“Many . . .”

He looked away, as if he couldn’t bear to watch Ragnar’s face. “Lagertha is well. Athelstan, too. He took ill but survived. But I’m afraid Gyda was among those who perished.”

Ragnar’s knees began to buckle. A thousand images of his beloved daughter painted themselves upon his mind, from the first moment she took breath, blood-covered and squirming, to the moment she told him she wanted to be a shieldmaiden like her mother, to the moment he held her before leaving to negotiate with Jarl Borg. That this would be the last time he embraced this perfect gem of a girl did not seem real. Yet the reality of it was evident in Torstein’s broken voice and sad eyes. His daughter was no more, and with her, a part of Ragnar’s own being had died, too.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Torstein lay a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Ragnar shook his head. “I just need some time to myself in my tent. Can you see that no one disturbs me for a while?”

“Of course.”

He was not the sort of person who believed that tears made a man weak, yet he still did not often show his own to others. Several moments passed inside the tent during which he was not aware of anything else in the world than the pain wracking his body and mind, and when he finally began to surface, his face and the front of his tunic were damp and salt-crusted. As he started to calm, however, a new emotion took over: anger. Anger at being betrayed by the gods, anger at his brother for abandoning them, anger at himself for not being with his family. And, though it shocked him to feel it, anger at Athelstan. It did not seem fair that the gods had twice chosen to spare him—with the sacrifice and the plague—and yet twice they had killed Ragnar’s children. As much as he was in love with the man, he still did not understand why the gods would favor this Christian over his own innocent children.

In his weakness, the blasphemy crept in: What if, he wondered, it wasn’t that the gods had spared the unbeliever, but Athelstan’s own god had intervened and saved him? What if his unborn son’s death had been punishment from the Christian god for trying to sway one of his most devout subjects from his faith—for leading him to commit, as Athelstan had put it, sins of the flesh? What if Gyda’s death was punishment for agreeing to sacrifice Athelstan in order to beg the gods for more sons? What if this budding, unnecessary war and his brother’s likely betrayal was this god’s doing for sacking his temple and enslaving Athelstan in the first place?

In the deepest core of his being, he had known and welcomed the gods in his life. He was descended from Odin, he believed. He had seen the Allfather and his ravens Huginn and Muninn watching over him. He had welcomed the guidance and protection. He had welcomed Thor’s power as it drove his ship to distant shores. He had, in fact, believed that his devotion was what had saved him so far: what healed him after the attack by the earl’s men, and what led him to victory in the Holmgang that earned him the earldom. And yet . . . all of these things had happened before he began leading the former monk to such grievous sins. Since beginning the intimate aspects of their relationship, everything else in his life had started to falter. Was it true—could it be true—that Athelstan’s god was more powerful than Odin?

He felt ashamed for even having the thought, and yet the doubt still festered in his belly, and desperation set in.

“Whatever god is listening,” he whispered, “know that I am sorry for whatever wrongs I may have done. I am but a human man, and one who is trying to live a life of honor. I know you cannot bring my children back to me, but I beg: please do not punish me further. Please grant me strength that I may prevail in this battle and at least see Bjorn again. I am ready to go to Valhalla if I am chosen, but I ask that I may at least embrace my last—my only—child one more time before I am done in this life. I ask—“

“Ragnar?” Torstein pushed aside the tent flap and peeked in.

He hastily brushed at his face and turned. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but King Horik wishes to speak to you, and, well, he didn’t want to wait.”

Ragnar grumbled under his breath. “Tell him I will be with him shortly.”

“As you say.” Torstein bowed out.     

Ragnar took a breath and returned to his prayer. “Odin or Jesus or whoever is responsible for my misery, I ask you this last mercy: kill me in battle if you wish it, but please do not let me die a hundred living deaths before it is done.”


	11. Sea Change, part One

Under the circumstances, Ragnar’s technical ownership of him included, avoiding the earl entirely wasn’t going to be possible forever. Still, Athelstan had managed to keep him at least at arm’s length since his return from the bloody battle that had claimed Arne’s life and badly wounded Floki. It helped that Ragnar was occupied with so many other things: dealing with Rollo’s treachery, fighting with Lagertha over Aslaug, whoever that was, and mourning the loss of Gyda in addition to all the political wranglings with the king and Jarl Borg. Occasionally, their eyes would meet, and there was a certain longing and pain in Ragnar’s that almost made Athelstan reconsider, but then the memories of Uppsala would return, and he couldn’t even look at the man.

Strangely, he had managed to forgive Lagertha for her part in the plan to sacrifice him, even though it was, as she had admitted, her idea in the first place. When he first took ill with the plague, she had sat with him, caring for him in his growing delirium, and confessed her guilt in a wash of tears. He had been too weak to properly tell her in words, but it seemed she knew that he understood and had accepted her apology. By the time he surfaced, to learn that Thyri and Gyda had died, the point was utterly moot anyway. Words were not needed as they held each other, in the quiet of the earl’s quarters, while grief overcame them both.

Yet as they had grown closer, forging a friendship that existed outside of what either of them felt for Ragnar, his anger at the other of his would-be sacrificers had not subsided. Thus, when Ragnar finally cornered him the morning after Rollo’s trial, he could not give the man the solace he sought.

“You’ve been avoiding me since my return. Why?” Ragnar searched his face for answers.

Athelstan shrugged. “What is there to say? We cannot change anything that has happened. The world is not the same place as it was when last we were here together.”

“And we are not the same people, are we?” Ragnar sighed heavily.

“I’m afraid not.”

“I miss you. I miss being with you.” He reached up, and tried to stroke Athelstan’s cheek.

Athelstan batted the hand away and took a step back. “I cannot. I have . . . I have returned to my faith. To my vows.”

“What?” Ragnar looked as if something had broken inside him.

“I remain loyal to you as my master. I will perform my household duties as your servant. But I will not, willingly, at least, serve you in that way any longer.” He tried to control his trembling. “My god, as you told me, came through for me, more than once now, and I cannot repay that benevolence with more sin.”

Ragnar’s eyes grew wet. “But I need you, Athelstan. I need your comfort.”

“I am sorry. If you wish comfort of that sort, I suggest seeking it with Lagertha. With your wife.”

Ragnar’s face twisted and reddened. His body tensed, and his hands tightened into fists. For one terrifying moment, Athelstan was afraid he would be struck. Then, all at once, the fire drained out of the earl, and he seemed smaller than he had before. “So be it,” he said, his voice quiet and dark. “Your god must love you, and it is clear that he can do more with that love than I can with mine. I hope he can give you the joy you once gave me.” Turning quickly, arms around himself, he stalked back down to the dock, there to stand and stare at the water as if seeking security from it.

It would be a month before they spoke again.

 

The nights were getting colder, now, so the chill breeze that snuck under his blankets as they were lifted woke him before her voice and touch did.

“Lagertha?” he murmured, sleep in his voice. “What is it?” His vision cleared enough that he could see the firelit glint on her face from where her tears had streaked it.

She climbed in, settling into his ready embrace, and buried her face in his shoulder. “I cannot live like this.” Her voice was a rough whisper. “I cannot give him what he seeks. She can.”

He had expected this. The pain and humiliation had been written on her face from the moment the princess had come to Kattegat. She had tried to be accommodating and friendly—how she had tried—but her fortitude could only go so far. “I’m so sorry.” He stroked her hair, finger-combing the loose, unbraided strands. Although he had returned to his celibacy, he had not been able to give up at least the balm of her presence. The part of him that he had reburied still stirred by having her so close, but it was easily subsumed by something else, now: a sense memory of being in his mother’s arms so long ago. Lonely as he had felt lately, the gentleness of her embrace was sweet succor, and it was clear she had felt the same about him.

“She is everything to him that I am not,” she continued, trying to hold back sobs. “I am but a farmer’s daughter, not a high-born lady. I can bear a shield for him, but not children. It is no wonder that he wishes to keep her. I understand his desire to want to be there for his new child, but I cannot stand to watch this happen--to watch as my own meaning diminishes.”

"I care not what others may think. Your meaning to me has not diminished in the slightest." He dropped a kiss on her forehead.

She smiled sadly. "Thank you for that, but I fear it's not enough to chase away the humiliation of being near her every day."

"So what are you saying?" Worry began to gnaw at his belly.

“I must leave. I must divorce Ragnar. I have decided.”

He pulled back, scanning her face. She was clearly serious. “But where will you go?”

“I have a couple of distant cousins near Hedeby. I sent word to them last week, and they replied that I may stay with them until some other situation presents itself.”

“And Bjorn? What about him?”

Her breath hitched. “That is his decision. I want him to come with me, but I suspect he may choose his father.”

“So you may be alone, then?”

“I hope not.” She met his eyes. “I want you to come with me, Athelstan.”

His mouth hung open for several moments.

“Please,” she said.

“Lagertha . . . I cannot tell you how grieved I am by the possibility of your leaving. My life will have lost one of its greatest lights if you go. But surely you must know that I cannot join you. It is not my choice to make.”

Her lip trembled. “It can happen. Somehow. Our laws are such that I may take a certain amount of shared property with me when I divorce. I could likely take possession of my husband’s thrall. Maybe. I hope.”

He shook his head. “We both know it’s not possible. Ragnar won’t allow it. I am still too valuable to him for his future raiding plans.”

She went quiet and limp in his arms, sniffling.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stroking her damp cheek.

“You still love him, don’t you?” she whispered into his shoulder.

He could not deny it, but he also couldn’t say the words aloud. He simply pulled her closer, as if he could keep her from leaving if he held her tightly enough. In truth, Aslaug’s arrival had bothered him, too. She seemed confused by the position he had in the household, and taken aback when told that she must treat him with more respect than the other slaves and servants. It was clear she was unused to the lines between nobles and thralls being as blurred as Ragnar had made them in his case. Yet it was not only her condescension that had upset him, but a similar reason to the one behind Lagertha’s decision to leave: Aslaug could give Ragnar things that he could not. A hot rush came to his face as he realized that the feelings had not yet left him in their entirety, however much he had begged God for help in making them fade.

“I understand,” Lagertha finally said. “But if you cannot join me, may I ask at least one other favor before I go?”

“Of course. If it is within my power, I will give you whatever I can.”

“If I am to leave without causing chaos, I need to do it under cover. I need to be out of town before Ragnar knows I am gone.”

“I see. How can I help?”

“It is autumn, now. The hills are full with robust prey. Ragnar would surely welcome a chance to get away from the pressures he faces here. Will you suggest that he take you on a hunting day?”

He shivered involuntarily. Memories of their previous “hunting” trips filled his mind. He knew very well that if he suggested such a thing, Ragnar might believe that his intentions were something other than finding a buck or some grouse to shoot. Being alone in the hills would bring a great deal of potential pain and awkward moments. But the pleading look in Lagertha’s eyes convinced him. “Yes. I will do it. Just name the day for me, and it will be done.”

Her tears began anew, and she clung to him desperately. “If ever we meet again, Athelstan, I will find some way to repay you. The gods may have taken from me nearly everything that I have loved, but at least they have granted me the gift of your friendship.” 


	12. Sea Change, part Two

All things considered, their hunting had been a success. They had bagged a pheasant and two large rabbits—Athelstan even scoring one himself—and had had several enjoyable, if light, conversations. The crisp, clean air, far away from the dust and grime of the village, did much to lift Athelstan’s spirits. For a time, he even forgot his purpose in suggesting the day out in the first place. He had made it clear to Ragnar that he still did not wish to engage in anything other than searching for prey, but aside from that, the ice between them seemed slowly to be melting.

Their return, however, was inevitable, and all along the way, his stomach churned. He veered off from Ragnar shortly after their arrival, telling him he would bring the pheasant to the cooks for the evening’s meal, and then hid in his room, hoping that being curled up on his bed and praying would somehow keep him from facing Ragnar’s wrath.

It did not.

The look on the earl’s face as he stormed into the room caused a jarring memory to reassert itself in Athelstan’s mind: Being found crouching behind the altar, cradling his Gospel as if it were the Christ child himself, and begging in the language of the Northmen for this dangerous man to spare his life.

“You knew!” Ragnar shouted. “You knew she was leaving, didn’t you?” He grabbed a drinking vessel from the table and threw it against the wall, where it shattered into powdery splinters. 

“Yes.” Athelstan wrapped his arms around himself, as poor a shield as they made.

“Is that why we went hunting today? To keep me from following her?”

He looked away.

“I’ll never forgive you for this.” Ragnar stalked toward him, leaning over the bed and getting in his face. “Never.” He moved again to the table, and shoved a pile of mending onto the floor.

For some odd reason, that callous, childish act—fouling up the work he’d been doing—lit a fire within Athelstan. A boldness he never knew he had drew him up from the bed. “Then what use am I to you as your friend?” he asked, almost calmly.

“What?” Ragnar turned back, staring at him.

“I am your slave,” he said, getting on his knees on the wooden floor. “This is all I am to you now. So beat me, if you will. Sell me. Honestly, you may as well kill me. You were going to have me killed anyway, yes? You now have a chance.” Reaching for the pile of clothing and sewing implements, he found the small blade he used to trim thread and frayed cloth. He held it up to Ragnar, and tilted his head back. “You wanted a willing sacrifice? Well, here I am. If you do it quickly, maybe the gods will smile on you for once, and bring her back to you.”

Ragnar snatched the blade from his hand, and crouched down. He grabbed a handful of hair, pulling back Athelstan’s head farther. He lay the blade aside one of the throbbing arteries in his slave’s exposed neck.

“What are you waiting for, Ragnar?” Athelstan locked eyes with him. “You have lost nearly everything else in your life. You may as well lose me, too.”

The blade pressed against him, and he felt the sharp sting as his flesh parted for its edge. But no sooner had the first small trickle of blood begun to flow down his neck than Ragnar dropped the blade in his lap and collapsed, sitting down hard on the floor in front of where Athelstan knelt. He curled in on himself, and began to sob.

Athelstan had never seen Ragnar in such a state—not even when he had learned of the loss of his unborn son. He was shattered: a raw, empty shell where a man used to be. Pity replaced fear; replaced anger, and Athelstan leaned forward, folding his master into his arms as he had Gyda’s limp, lifeless body.  

It seemed a lifetime passed before they parted. Luckily, no one else in the vicinity had heard nor attempted to find them.

Lifting his head from Athelstan’s lap, Ragnar brushed at his swollen, wet face. “You are the only family I have left, now.” He sat up and stared at the floor.

The shock of hearing the word in reference to himself took him aback for a moment, but he figured it to be hyperbole. That Ragnar no longer considered Rollo family wasn’t a surprise, but it still seemed odd that he would say such a thing when there were clearly others in his life. “What about Aslaug? What about the child she carries?”

Ragnar shrugged. “I will love my child no matter what, but his mother? I barely know her. She came to me as I was weak, and now I am stuck with the bad decision I made to be with her. I may grow to love her in time, but for now, I have few feelings for her that aren’t related to the baby in her belly.”

“And your friends? Torstein? Floki?”

“I love them dearly, and their presence in my house is a gift. Yet they are not what you are to me—what you have always been.”

Athelstan’s eyes narrowed a little. “Always? Then why did you try to have me sacrificed?”

Ragnar looked up, frowning. “Do you not know?”

“Lagertha told me it was her idea—she said she was desperate to give you more sons.”

Ragnar nodded. “It was her idea, but do you know why we chose _you_?”

Athelstan shook his head.

“You should understand it. Your religion is also full of sacrifices, is it not?”

“It is,” he acknowledged. “Monks and priests sacrifice pleasure, wealth and comfort. Laypeople give up their worldly goods and tithe money to the church. We have a holy period of 40 days each spring in which we are required to give up something dear, to remind us of the far-greater sacrifices that Jesus made for us.”

“There you have it, then,” Ragnar said.

“I still don’t follow.”

Ragnar smiled sadly, and reached for Athelstan’s face. “As you said: ‘something dear.’ Aside from our children, there was nothing more dear to us than you. A true sacrifice isn’t the loss of something you can do without: it is the loss of something that you love.”

Athelstan almost stopped breathing for a moment. All the long months he had been furious with Ragnar for apparently feeling so little for him that he wanted him dead, he had been completely wrong. He didn’t _want_ the death of his friend—his companion; his lover—and that was entirely the point.

“It was why I couldn’t tell you, you know,” Ragnar continued. “If I had said something, that would have made it real, and that was a reality I could not bear to confront.” He petted the young man’s face gently, then pulled away again.

The realization of how wrong he had been was sobering—and also put a serious twist in the path Athelstan had sworn to follow in the wake of what he had believed was a betrayal. He still felt that God had saved him from the sacrifice—and certainly had saved him from the plague—but in context with Ragnar’s explanation, his own decision to go back to his vows seemed pointless. God had not turned Ragnar’s heart against him in punishment for his sins; indeed, Ragnar’s heart had been true to him the entire time. Had God really been against their union, that would not have been the case.

A strange thought crept into his mind. “Do you still wish you could somehow have pledged something to the gods—something besides the sacrifice that Leif made?”

Ragnar sighed. “I do. I am grateful for what Leif did for us, but I fear it was not enough. The gods have so hurt me of late that I feel I must have angered them somehow. Or perhaps I angered your god. That thought had occurred to me as well.”

“It’s possible, I suppose. I imagine my god would bring any wrath upon me, however, instead of you, and it seems he has not done so at all. He has shown me great favor, in fact. I can only imagine that He believes I have done nothing wrong. Strange as it seems, in all my fear over angering Him with my sins, it seems I worried for naught.”

“So what are you thinking?”

Athelstan moved closer to him, and took his hand. “Your people honor the gods with things other than sacrifice, do they not? I have observed many other rites than those of blood.”

Ragnar nodded. “It is true, yes. We pray, we plant; we offer food and drink, among other things.”

“And you have sex as well, yes? That is part of what Thyri did to prepare me, if I am correct.”

“Yes.” Ragnar searched his face, his expression growing hopeful.

Athelstan smiled, and leaned over. Taking Ragnar’s face in his hands, he pressed a deep, breathtaking kiss on him. Pulling back, he looked into Ragnar's eyes and whispered, “Then let us honor your gods.”


	13. Woman's Intuition

Perhaps it was Aslaug's gift that drew her toward the alcove room where her new husband's favorite thrall kept his bed. In the past several months that she had been here, curiosity about their unusual relationship had been nibbling at her mind like a mouse at grain. Most of her concerns had of course been aimed at Lagertha, and on figuring out exactly where she and her soon-to-be-born child might fit in Ragnar's world, but now that his first wife had taken her son and gone, she was more free to think about other things. Like, for instance, exactly why her husband was kneeling at the slave's bedside and pushing a glossy, dark curl away from his forehead.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?” Ragnar murmured. “I’m worried about you.”

The slave shook his head. “I’m fine. It’s just a little cold. I’ll be well in a day or so.” He dissolved into a coughing fit, and when he was done, he looked up, seeing her there in the doorway. "Ragnar," he rasped, nodding toward her.

Ragnar turned, his face flushed, and stared at her. "Why are you here? Do you need something?"

"I was only wondering where you had gone, and now that I see, I'll be back about my own business." She smiled tightly and turned to go. She was unsurprised—though satisfied—to hear Ragnar scrambling to his feet to follow her.

"Are you well?" He caught up to her and put a hand to her face as she sat down on a bench.

"I am. This child of yours grows heavy, and I anxiously await the day when he will leave my body, but I am otherwise healthy."

He released a breath. "Good. I was worried for a moment."

"Why?"

"Well, Athelstan," he nodded back toward the room, "is ailing, and I wanted to be sure you don't have the same thing."

She shook her head. "I do not. I did not know he was ill, however."

"He tells me it's nothing big—he doesn't even have a fever—but after the plague . . . "

She nodded in understanding. "I cannot imagine what it was like for you to lose your daughter. I can see why you would be concerned with anyone showing sickness, even if it's just a slave."

Ragnar winced. "Athelstan's not just—"

"So I am gathering." Her eyes narrowed. "I admit that I am confused by that. I am not used to there being such . . . closeness between free people and their thralls. Is this some custom in this part of the land?"

His shoulders sagged and he stared at the floor. "No. Athelstan is . . . he's a special case."

"He's the one you captured in England, is he not? The Christian?"

Ragnar nodded. "I took him for my slave after that raid, and he provided me with very useful information for other journeys. But he has become much more to me since then. I am his master, yes, but I also consider him a friend."

She raised an eyebrow. "Even though he is a foreigner? And believes in a false god?"

"I do not expect you to understand." He flashed a sheepish smile. "I'm not sure I understand it myself some days."

"Well, I must say that it does disturb me some to see my husband consorting so casually with a slave. Especially one so . . . strange as this one. I would expect an earl to be more concerned with appearances than to debase himself so."

Ragnar's head jerked up, and his icy eyes flashed with sudden anger. "I am not debasing myself, Aslaug. I do not care whether you approve or not. Athelstan is an honored member of my household, and someone I respect deeply. He has a great deal of responsibility and I trust him completely. I do not ask you to feel affection for him, but you must accept that he is important to me. I will hear nothing disrespectful spoken or done to him, is that clear?"

She was taken aback by the intensity of his response, but then a slow smile crept over her face, as she realized her instincts had been correct after all. "Indeed, it is clear."

His voice softened, and he put an arm around her shoulders. "If it helps, try to think of him as a freed man. He is not, nor can I free him yet, for reasons I cannot explain, but in all but legal status, that is what he is. The people of Kattegat have come to understand that. Treating him with kindness will not mean that they will believe you are lowering yourself to socialize with a slave."

"So be it." She ran a hand over her belly. The child inside her was giving her pangs of indigestion today, and she wanted a nap. With some effort and a hand from her husband, she stood again. Before she left to return to her chamber, she patted Ragnar's head, somewhat condescendingly. "I will accept your friendship with this man. I ask only one thing, however."

"Which is?"

She smirked. "Try not to spend too many nights in his bed. I get cold sleeping alone."


	14. Freyja's Gift

The last time Athelstan heard a woman screaming like this, what followed was one of the most frightening, devastating things he'd ever encountered. Third most, at least, behind the attack on his monastery and witnessing the sacrifices of which he should have been part.

That Aslaug's pregnancy, unlike Lagertha's, had been entirely healthy and untroubled still didn't set his mind at ease.  He found himself wanting to be there, in the earl's quarters, helping in whatever way he could. Such a thing wasn't possible, of course. Lagertha would likely have let him be near had her baby come at the normal time, but Aslaug still treated him with a measure of disdain, if not distaste. His presence would not have given her comfort at all, even if it might have done so for Ragnar. In any case, even with Lagertha's patient explanation of a woman's body and his own, more personal experience with Thyri, he still wouldn't have known the first thing about how to help beyond standing around and saying calming things.

So, shut out from the event as it happened, he tried his best to busy himself with other things, though Aslaug's pained cries were evident even some distance away from where she was giving birth.

On his third pass at making sure the goats' pen was clean and well provisioned, he was stopped with a hand on his shoulder.

"I think the goats are fine, Athelstan." Helga grinned at him. She carried a large basket full of herbs and roots she'd bought from a market stall. Floki finally being fully well, and no longer in need of regular attention from the healers, they were now provisioning for their return to his remote cabin.

He smiled sheepishly at her. "You're right. Of course they are. It's just—" He winced as another loud cry pierced the air.

"You're nervous about Ragnar's child."

He sighed and shuffled his feet.

She nodded. "I understand. Births are a common thing, but it's not something familiar to you, is it?"

He shook his head. "Aside from animal births, my only experience with anything like this was Lagertha . . ."

"When she lost the baby, yes. I heard that you were nearby when it happened."

"I was. I was actually . . ." He hesitated, wondering how much he should say.  "I was keeping her company that night, as she was feeling unwell." More than two years on, the memories were still as clear as if it had happened yesterday, even though so many, many things had changed since then.

"That must have been frightening for you, I'm sure."

He smiled weakly. "It was, yes. Ragnar and Aslaug have told me not to worry this time, but I still do. I can't help it."

"Well." She shrugged. "I won't lie to you. You're right to worry."

His mouth dropped open and he stared at her. "What?"

"I'm sure they just didn't want to make you especially nervous, but the truth is that every pregnancy and birth is a time for concern." She sounded almost nonchalant, even as shocking as her words were to him. "Of course most times it all turns out just fine, but it's not as if losing the baby or worse is uncommon. Many women or their babies die in the birthing bed. It's something every girl thinks about as soon as she is old enough to bleed. There is a reason we have midwives and other wise women to attend to us. It is a brave—and perhaps foolish—woman who would attempt to do this entirely alone. Men may risk death every time they step on the battlefield, but we women also risk it every time the gods fill us with child." She nodded back toward the earl's quarters. "The risks for a first-time birth are especially grave, since a woman's body is not yet accustomed to the event."

He frowned at her. "I . . . this is not making me feel better, Helga."

She laughed lightly. "I say this not to make you more fearful or upset. Just to tell you that your instincts, at least, are not unwarranted. Even though it is not your wife or your child, it's still understandable that you would be concerned. You shouldn't be ashamed of having normal feelings about it."

He felt himself relaxing somewhat. Oddly, her words did have some comfort to them. He suddenly tensed again, however, when another—long and agonized--scream issued forth.

Helga caressed his arm soothingly. "It seems like things are nearing an end."

"It does?"

As if to prove her words, the next sounds he heard were triumphant whooping and cheers from Ragnar and the women attending the birth. Shortly after was a hearty squall from the baby.

"See?" She leaned forward, throwing an arm around his shoulders for a quick hug.

He hugged her back and giggled in relief. "I do see!" He pulled back and scanned her face. "How is it that you know so much, though? You're a young woman. I didn't think you had had children already."

She shook her head. "I haven't. I'm the oldest of seven and my mother was a midwife. I've been present at at least two dozen births. You tend to pick things up after all that."  

"Oh! Yes, I suppose you would. That must have been an interesting way to grow up, though. Maybe sometime you can—"

"Athelstan!" Ragnar burst through the door, his face flushed and his hands wet and a little bloody. "Come see! Come meet my son!"

"Are you sure?" He asked Ragnar. "I don't want to bother Aslaug."

Ragnar grabbed his arm. "Of course I'm sure. She's tired, but she's fine. And so is my son. Everything's fine. Everything is perfect!"  

Helga laughed. "Go on, priest. This is a good day. The gods have smiled on us."

He turned back to her as he was dragged away. "I guess they have! Thank you."

"You're welcome!" She waved and ambled away.

"What are you thanking her for?" Ragnar propelled him toward the open door.

"Nothing. Just some kind words. I was worried, and she—Oh! Oh, my." He stopped short just inside the door as the vision greeted him.

Aslaug was sitting up in bed, a moist, squriming bundle at her breast while the women attending her finished clearing away the mess. She smiled tiredly. "You can come see him, Athelstan."

Ragnar rushed over, kneeling at the bedside and happily petting both his wife and child.

Athelstan moved more gingerly, almost afraid to make too much noise lest he upset the baby. As he approached, he finally saw its face. Red, and with an odd smattering of hair and traces of some sort of white paste he figured he was better off not knowing about, it was nonetheless the face of a healthy, if very small, human. The child blinked, his watery blue eyes still getting used to the light, and he suckled hungrily from his mother.

"This is Ubbe," Ragnar said quietly, a smile seemingly permanently attached to his face.

Athelstan cleared his dry throat, and whispered, "Hello, Ubbe! I'm pleased to meet you." Tentatively, he leaned over and reached out a hand. Aslaug nodded, and he gently lay a few fingers on the child's shoulder. All at once, he was overcome by a strong feeling—something he'd never before experienced. He felt love, he felt joy, and he felt an intense urge to protect and care for this tiny person. The child wasn't even his and yet somehow he felt connected to him anyway. He could only imagine that Ragnar and Aslaug's feelings must be tenfold his. It was, in short, humbling.

Ubbe broke away from the nipple, and made a small, bleating noise. He reached up with an impossibly tiny hand, and clutched at Athelstan's thumb.

Ragnar laughed. "I think he said he's happy to meet you, too."

Athelstan giggled nervously, and gently pulled his hand back. The baby then sneezed—an adorable sound—and went back to gobbling down his first meal. Athelstan couldn't quite think of anything useful to say, but in his mind he recited a small blessing, and then, to his surprise, followed it with another short plea to Freyja. So much did he love this child that he wanted all possible gods to watch over him.

Ragnar stroked Ubbe's damp hair, and kissed his head. "Welcome to Midgard, my son." He looked up at Aslaug, and then at Athelstan. "Welcome to your family."  


	15. Simple Gifts

One of the things Athelstan had come to love about his new home was how heartily these Northmen celebrated special occasions. Everything from healthy births to marriages to harvests and hunts were welcomed with feasting, drinking, and merrymaking of many different sorts. There were sacrifices, too, which still disturbed him to some degree, but even those he had come to accept as part of the culture into which he had been involuntarily adopted. It helped that he now understood how these people honored and revered the creatures whose lives they offered to their gods. This was no wanton slaughter as he once had believed, but as important a part of the cycles of their years and lives as any other rite.

By far, however, his favorite of the Northern celebrations was the midwinter festival of _jól,_ the celebration of which he was currently enjoying in Kattegat's great hall. It reminded him in great measure of his homeland's celebrations of Jesus' birth around the same time of year—an element he often kept in mind even as he was raising a goblet of mead in honor of the Allfather. It had not escaped him in his years of monastic study that there were pagan aspects to how the English and Frankish celebrated the Christchild, and seeing the winter fest in this land had only confirmed his suspicions of old. It was, therefore, a time when he felt as if the two halves of himself might someday be whole: that just as his people had melded traditions of the old Celts with the religion of the Romans, his love of God might one day merge with his growing respect for Odin.

Of course, part of himself had already been wholly subsumed by the Northmen—or at least one of them.

Ragnar sidled up to him, a horn of ale in hand. "Do you have enough to drink?"

Athelstan lifted the goblet he'd been nursing. "I am well supplied, thank you."

"And your belly. Is it full enough?" He slyly patted the slightly rounded space above Athelstan's belt.

"It is indeed. Perhaps a little too much." He grinned. Despite the physical nature of many of his household duties, nearly four years of staying more or less close to Kattegat had put a bit more flesh on his bones than there had been when he was living an ascetic's life in the monastery. The food and drink here were not always in plenty, but when they were, they were enjoyed with as much abandon as these people enjoyed other carnal pleasures. Just as he had been gleefully indulging in the latter, the former had been part of his joy of life as well, and the evidence had begun to show on his body. Not that Ragnar seemed to mind; he always made sure that Athelstan's hungers of all sorts were well satisfied.

Of course, the feeling of the man's strong fingers stroking his abdomen was now making him peckish for at least one of those indulgences. Dropping his chin, he looked up through his lashes in a way he knew Ragnar usually found irresistible, and licked his lips in an entirely unsubtle fashion.

Ragnar got the hint. He looked around the hall to note that his family and guests were well occupied with their various pursuits of holiday consumption and amusement. This late in the evening, the chances of them being missed were next to nothing. After locking eyes with Aslaug and getting a smile and nod in return, he nudged Athelstan's shoulder with his own. "Come with me." He set aside the horns and goblet. "I have something you'll want to see."

Athelstan turned and flashed a rakish smile as Ragnar steered him out the door and toward the earl's quarters. "Well, I'm sure I've already seen it all by now."

"Impertinent!" Ragnar chided him. "I have half a mind not to show you now."

Athelstan pouted, though the effect was sort of ruined by the thick snow now falling on his face.

"Get inside, you naughty child." Ragnar directed him with a slap to the arse, giggling when he was rewarded with a sharp yelp.

"I'm going! I'm going!"

Once they were inside, and the fire had started warming his cheeks again, Ragnar stopped him. "All right. Close your eyes first."

Athelstan did so. "Closed. Now what?"

"Hold out your arms."

Athelstan couldn't help grinning—and also couldn't help a quick flutter through his belly. Though he had a hard time admitting it to himself in so many words, some of the games he and Ragnar had begun to play now and again really lit him on fire. It seemed odd given how Ragnar had once bound and leashed him as a matter of unwanted control that he now welcomed—even longed for—the similar acts they did these days. Perhaps it was knowing that Ragnar meant him no real harm whatsoever, and would instantly stop if Athelstan wished him to that made the difference. In any case, when Ragnar wanted him to close his eyes and hold out his arms in ways like this, things he very much enjoyed often followed.

Thus, he was surprised that the sudden weight that lit upon his left arm felt nothing like the bonds Ragnar usually used. Likewise, the leather-wrapped wood pushed into his right hand was unfamiliar.

"Open," Ragnar commanded.

To Athelstan's complete astonishment, he found himself standing in the middle of Ragnar's bedroom holding a solid wooden shield and a gleaming, well-honed battle axe. He stared in confusion.

"Do you like them?" Ragnar beamed proudly at him. "They suit you. I knew they would. I had them made for your size and stance."

Athelstan tilted his arm, looking down at the face of the shield. Its edge was wrapped in well-forged iron, and it was painted half green, half cream, with a decorative band across the middle. The axe likewise was well-crafted and sturdy. Both did, as Ragnar had noted, fit him very well—inasmuch as such things could. "Ragnar. I don't know what to say. Thank you, but I . . . I never expected something like this."

Ragnar looked concerned, and perhaps a little hurt. "Are you not pleased by them? Do you not like the colors on the shield? I could have it repainted."

"No! I love the colors. This shade of green has always been one of my favorites, in fact. It's just . . . I'm not a warrior. I'm not sure what I would do with them."

"It is true you are not a warrior like me or the rest of my war band. Or indeed like any other Northman would be to at least some degree. But I don't think that needs to remain the case forever. If you're interested, that is."

Six years ago, he could never have imagined wielding such things in battle, or even knowing how they were wielded. But then again, six years ago he also would never have imagined many of the other things he now did with gusto as a matter of course in his new life. He hefted the weight of the shield, and made a few experimental cuts in the air with the axe. A slow smile spread across his face. "I think I might be interested, yes. This is wholly foreign to me, but I admit I kind of like it."

Ragnar's giddy expression returned. "Good! I'm very happy that you do." He strolled around behind Athelstan, slipping his arms around the shorter man's shoulders, and gently guiding the motion of his arms. "I admit that I've always been concerned that you didn't have any battle skills. There's always the chance that we could be attacked, or that someone who mislikes you might want to do you harm, and I won't be around to protect you. The idea that you might learn to protect yourself gives me great comfort."

Athelstan nodded. "I understand. You're right. I would like to know better how to defend myself if I need to." He tried to move the way Ragnar guided him. "And I suppose there is one other advantage."

"Oh?" Ragnar encircled his right wrist, helping him trace a series of standard figures with the axe.

"Well, about people misliking me . . . perhaps if I was stronger—more of a warrior—people might not look down on me as _ergi_.  Of course I would still be who I am on the inside—and I would still be your lover—so that wouldn't change entirely. Yet, perhaps I could at least put on a stronger countenance, and thus deflect some of the scorn, if it's clear I can use these things as well as any other Northman."

"That's an excellent point, and one I had not even considered myself. You know you don't have to prove yourself to me in any way, but I admit I do like the idea that you might someday prove yourself to the people who don't see you as I do." Slipping the shield and axe from Athlestan's hands, he set them aside and came around to face him again. He reached up to trace the line of the young man's thickening beard. "You are so very different now from the frightened priest I once thought I might kill. I love you the same in any case, but that you are truly becoming one of my people does please me."

Athelstan's eyes fluttered closed as he enjoyed the caress. "It pleases me, too."

Tilting Athelstan's chin up, Ragnar pressed a solid, wet kiss upon him. He tasted like ale and roast boar and rosemary. " _You_ please me," he said, pulling back.

Athelstan smiled warmly, and slipped his arms around Ragnar's waist. "I hope I always do."

"Of that, I have no doubt."  Ragnar settled his hands on slender hips, pulling him closer. "I have asked Torstein to begin your training as soon as you'd like. I'll train you myself when I can, too."

"I look forward to it." Athelstan reached between them. "For now, however, how about we do something I already do well?"

Ragnar sucked in a breath. "No argument from me," he purred, his voice low and teasing. "You may be new with the axe, but your skills with the staff are second to none."


	16. Dirty Little Secrets

Ragnar sat at the table, casually fondling the beautiful piece of metal in his hand. It was perfect: exactly how he had imagined when he set the goldsmith to making it. The dragon heads at either end were fierce, the twisted strands of the band between them fine and even. He smiled, imagining the moment when, he hoped, he’d be able to give it to the person for whom it was intended.

Unexpected footsteps in the outer hall startled him. He quickly slid the arm ring into its leather pouch and stood up. He didn’t expect Athelstan to be here this morning, having an appointment for an armor fitting, but he wanted to be careful to protect the surprise nonetheless.

He needn’t have worried.

“So!” Torstein bounded in, a broad smile evident through his blond beard. “What did you think? Did I train him well?”

Ragnar laughed. “Very well! We sparred yesterday afternoon, and I was impressed with his skill.” He gestured for his friend to sit down, and retook his own seat.

“I hoped you might be. I was, too. He doesn’t seem like much to look at him, but he’s almost a natural. I would never have guessed he wasn’t raised with an axe in his hand like any other Northman.” Torstein leaned over the table, dropping his voice. “Believe it or not, he actually bested me, once. The clever little mouse ducked under a blow and came around my side to wallop me in the back. He’s fast, and downright fierce when he gets his blood up.”

Ragnar tried not to let his face betray how very well he knew the truth of Torstein’s words. “That’s good to hear. I saw a bit of that myself.”  

“I only worry that he starts getting sloppy when he’s losing ground and starts to panic.” Torstein’s smile faded slightly. “It may be that he needs to be blooded—to give himself some confidence—but I’m not sure how we can go about that.”

“Well, it should be somewhat easy very soon.” Ragnar sipped at his mug of hot, herbed water.

“How so?”

Ragnar flashed a sly smile. “I’m taking him with us.”  

Torstein’s brow furrowed. “With us? Where?” Then his eyes grew wide in understanding. “Oh! On our raid? To England?”

Ragnar nodded.

Torstein looked unconvinced. “Are you certain?”

“Didn’t you just say that he was a natural with his axe? And that he only needs blooding to root his skill?”

“Well, yes, but . . . it’s not that I doubt his skill.”

“What do you doubt, then?” Ragnar raised an eyebrow.

Torstein chewed his lip and fidgeted. “It’s just that we're going back to his homeland. Aren’t you concerned?”

“About?”

“That he might want to stay. That he might try to escape somehow—to go back to his people. Being back on his own soil might remind him that you took him from it in the first place.”

Ragnar shrugged. “He has more than proven that he is loyal to me. I think he would like to visit his old country, but his home is here. He’s made that clear.”

“I agree that it very much seems as if he is one of us, now. I have grown fond of him over the years myself. He is a good and dear friend to me.” Torstein shifted uncomfortably. “But how do you know his loyalty isn’t just because he’s your thrall? Do you know his heart that well, to know that he would not choose otherwise if he truly had a choice?”

Ragnar shivered off a momentary wave of doubt. “I know his heart very well, Torstein. And in any case, the matter of whether it is his choice may soon be moot.”

Torstein cocked his head. “Oh?”

Ragnar reached inside the pouch and drew forth the arm ring. “Say absolutely nothing of this to anyone, especially him.”

Torstein stared at the band. “I will say nothing, but if he is to become your thane, he would need to be a free man, yes?”

“Exactly.” Ragnar smiled broadly and slipped the ring back in its pouch. “If he proves himself in battle—if we are attacked by his countrymen and he kills one or more of them—then surely it will prove his loyalty beyond all doubt. I already believe it in my heart, but such an act would undoubtedly sway anyone else who has ever questioned whether he is one of us. It would earn him a place among all other free men. No more would anyone say that Athelstan is less than any other Northman.”

Torstein went quiet for a moment, gazing at the pouch. Finally, he spoke again, albeit hesitantly. “Ragnar, you are my beloved friend. I have been, and will always be, on your side. So please know that I say this without meaning any disrespect or questioning of your character.”

Ragnar’s jaw tightened. “Go on.”

Torstein did not meet his eye. “Surely you must know what some people say about Athelstan.”

Ragnar feigned innocence. “What do they say about him?”

“That he is . . . They question him not just because he is a slave, or a foreigner, or a Christian. They question whether he is truly a man at all.” He looked back up, and quickly added: “Not that I feel that way myself. As I said: he is my friend. I care for him very much, and to be honest, I’ve found myself defending his honor a time or two. Tork Amundson bears a scar on his cheek just for that.” He grinned.

Ragnar returned the smile. “I had wondered how he came by that mark.”

“But in any case,” Torstein continued. “People have sometimes questioned why you would consort with such a man.”

 _So it has come to this_ , Ragnar thought bitterly. He sat back in his chair and passed a hand over his face. “There’s no need to be indirect about it, Torstein. You can say it: people believe Athelstan to be _ergi_.”

Torstein hung his head. “Yes.”

“Well, they are not incorrect.”

Torstein’s head snapped back up. “What?”

“By how most Northmen would see him, yes. He is. But if he is, then so am I.”

“Ragnar, that’s not—“

“Save the words, Torstein.” He stood up and began to pace. “I know you mean well, and that you don’t wish to dishonor me—or him.”

“Of course not.”

“In truth, I have been wanting to free him for years, but I have not yet had the courage to face what people might think of me if I did. That he is now becoming a warrior with just as much skill as anyone is the opportunity I have needed, but the fact that I have waited so long to do this is a matter of shameful cowardice on my part.” Ragnar heaved a courage-shoring breath. “The truth is that I love Athelstan, with the deepest parts of my being. Although I am proud of the man he is becoming, I loved him before just as well. I have loved him, if I am being honest, from the moment I decided to spare his life when we raided his temple.” He picked up the pouch and traced the outline of the ring inside it with a fingertip. “I have loved him with my mind, with my heart . . . and with my body.” He glanced over. Torstein seemed frozen in his chair, but at least he didn’t seem to be reacting with hostility. “If loving this man has made me _ergi_ , then _ergi_ I shall be.” Trying to hide his trembling, he sat back down again, and fidgeted with the drawstring on the pouch.

Much to his surprise, Torstein burst out in a sudden ripple of laughter.

“What?” Ragnar frowned at him.

“By all the gods, it finally makes sense!” Torstein grinned big at him. “All these years, I’ve been wondering what you two were getting up to—sneaking off at all hours of the day and night. Curse my lack of imagination: I had thought you were getting into some secret stash of mushrooms or something. I should have known better.”

Ragnar shifted uncomfortably; this was not the reaction he had imagined to such a confession. “So you’re not upset? You’re not angry, or disgusted?”

Torstein shrugged. “Why would I be? Honestly, Ragnar: you of all people should be perfectly aware of what I’ve done. As I recall, you were actually present one of those times.”

“What, with Floki and Helga? I thought you two were only sharing her.”

“More or less. It’s not my place to tell you details—that’s a secret of Floki’s I swore to keep—but we were deep enough into our ale that night, and a couple of other times, that, well . . . let’s just say Helga is not the only one I kissed.” He grinned shyly, and his cheeks flushed. “But that’s actually not the time I meant. There was one other.”

Ragnar’s brain scrambled, as he tried to remember. “You’ve lost me. When? And with whom?”

“He is with the gods now, so I hope he won’t mind my mentioning it: Arne.”

“One-Eye? What happened with him? I still don’t—wait. I think . . . I was so drunk that night, though. I thought I had imagined it.”

“You didn’t. Arne and I had a couple of women between us in a tent at Uppsala. Things got very entangled, and we stopped caring whose body parts belonged to whom. Athelstan—the poor, hallucinating lad—was standing at the entrance to the tent, just watching the whole thing like it was a vision inside his head and not something real. You came up behind him, saw what was happening, and steered him away.” He paused for a wry chuckle. “You caught my eye just before you left, so I know you saw it.”

Now that he had been reminded, Ragnar did, in fact, remember the sight very clearly. “I did. Arne had his . . . and you were . . .”

“I was. It was a bit weird, now that I think about it, but at the time it seemed like a perfectly natural thing to do. I think Arne kind of wanted to forget it had happened—we never spoke of it again—but for my part, I don’t regret it.” He tilted his chair back, folding his hands behind his head. “Really, Ragnar. It’s not uncommon for men to share women, and we don’t call that _ergi_.”

“That’s not what’s happening with me and Athelstan, though. We’ve not shared any women. We almost did, with Lagertha, but that never quite worked out the way I—or she—had hoped.”

“And that’s a pity, I’m sure, but it’s kind of beside my point. Let's face it: when we men share a woman, half the time it’s far less about her than it is about us. We do it to bond with each other. We do it because we enjoy the extra male energy. We do it because we are so proud of our cocks that it excites us to be around other ones. What could be more of an intense experience of male bonding than to be with a man without even having a woman in the room?”

Ragnar had gone beyond surprise into fascination, so he simply stared as Torstein continued.

“I’m not saying that this is necessarily something that interests me on a given day. I love women—every god in Asgard knows how much I love women—but I think we men sometimes use their presence as an excuse to keep from acknowledging when we do love—and want—each other. It seems to me that at least you and Athelstan have dispensed with that excuse. Not to say that you don’t love Aslaug, or that you didn’t love Lagertha. I know your feelings for them very, very well. But it’s clear to me, and has been for many years, that you love Athelstan, too, and to be honest, I’m glad you aren’t trying to pretend you don’t, or hiding how you feel about him behind some woman you might share.”

The room went quiet for a moment while Ragnar digested the entirely bizarre conversation. Finally, he sighed with some sadness. “I like your perspective on things. I would never have figured you for such a thoughtful man, but I’m glad you are. The unfortunate part is that I doubt many others are as insightful or understanding about this.”

Torstein shook his head. “No, they’re not, which is ridiculous, but it is also reality. This is why I mentioned in the first place what people say about Athelstan. You’re aware of it, though, so I won’t say any more about it. And I of course won’t speak a word of what you have told me. I’m sure it took a lot of courage for you to confess it to me. I will keep your secret in full confidence.”  

A great deal of tension left Ragnar’s body. “Thank you.”

“I will say, however, that I’m not sure Athelstan proving himself in battle is going to be enough to change people’s minds about him—or you, by extension. Giving him that ring—giving him his freedom—is going to come with some risks.”

Ragnar nodded in understanding. “More than I had imagined, I suppose. Yet, I also am not afraid to take those risks. Let people think what they think. People can question my right to call myself a man—or Athelstan’s right to the same—at their own peril, because I will defend that at every turn.”

Torstein leaned back over the table, meeting Ragnar’s eyes. “And so will I. I cannot guarantee how anyone else will act, but for my part: I am sworn to defend you and your house, and that includes Athelstan. If anyone wishes to challenge either of you, they will have to face me, too.”

Ragnar reached out to clasp his hands. “I am very grateful for this, Torstein, in ways I cannot express. Having you by my side in a raid has always given me comfort, and it will even more so now.”

“You are most welcome, friend—and I look forward to raiding with you again!” He nodded at the pouch. “I also look forward to seeing that on Athelstan’s arm. He has earned it, several times over, and I, for one, am very glad the man who loves him will soon be giving him his due.”        


	17. Coming Home

As the ship pulled away from the dock, Athelstan felt a flutter in his belly. The last time he had crossed the sea on this vessel, he had been bound, shivering and fidgeting in the damp spray as his woolen habit irritated his skin, and trying to protect from the elements the blessed word he had risked his life to save. The Gospel in question now lay in fragments at the bottom of a chest in his room back in Kattegat, supplanted by the prayers he instead spoke to Odin.

It almost didn’t seem real that he was finally on his way back to England, but as an invader, not a native son returning home. Yet what home was there for him anyway? It was possible the monastery may have been rebuilt by now, but everyone he remembered from it was gone. He remembered little of his family of origin, and they were gone, too. 

Still, there were memories of the land itself: moist and green, the hills dotted with grazing sheep and patchworked with crops. He spoke his language with Ragnar, and had also taught some to Torstein, but their accents were still thick. It was possible that on this journey he might again speak freely with someone who understood his words without having to mentally translate them—that is, if he didn’t have to kill the person, first.

He fingered the haft of the axe at his hip. After all his training, it felt comfortable there, but he still wondered whether he really could kill someone with it; someone who wore a cross and who called out for mercy in the tongue in which he still dreamed.

Ragnar seemed to notice the faraway look on his face. He came up behind as Athelstan stood at the rail and set a hand on his shoulder. “I imagine this is strange for you,” he said, as quietly as the rushing wind and slap of waves from their wake would allow.

Athelstan glanced over at him and nodded. “It is, yes.”

“It is strange for me, too,” Ragnar admitted. “I remember clearly you being a bundle at my feet upon this ship, rather than standing at my side. For the record, though: I prefer you in this position.”

Athelstan raised an eyebrow and smirked.

Ragnar shoved him with his hip. “You know what I meant.”

Athelstan laughed. “I do.” Truly, he knew very well exactly what position Ragnar really preferred him in: the one he had been in this morning, as they quickly had a final encounter before the close quarters of the journey made such things impossible. He quivered with the memory, and hoped that they might have some private moments again once they had made land.

“You look good like this.” Ragnar looked over the new clothes and light leather vest Athelstan wore. “I think it suits you far better than that brown sack you once wore.”

Athelstan looked down. He kind of wished for something more protective, like the thicker, ring-fortified shirt Ragnar wore. But the reasoning for giving him something light and flexible—to better suit his fast, agile fighting style—made sense, too. In any case, Ragnar was right: it did feel more comfortable than his habit ever had. He smiled and stood a little taller.

The ship picked up speed as they headed into deeper water, and thick flocks of noisy shorebirds gave way to ever-fewer gulls and terns. Athelstan turned to look back as Kattegat grew smaller and finally faded from sight: One home behind; another ahead.

 

***

 

The morning had been a blur of filth and gore. How many had he mortally wounded or killed outright? Three? Four? His axe had bitten into the flesh of at least half a dozen: men who screamed as his blade struck them, and cursed with words he alone of the invaders knew. He was covered in dried fluids and bits of tissue belonging to those with whom he once had shared a country and a religion, and yet the only thing on his body that mattered was the shining band of twisted metal that encircled his left wrist.

It took all afternoon to lay their dead to rest, and to stack and burn the bodies of their fallen foes. Soon, the light from these pyres and a few campfires had replaced the orange glow through the western edge of the forest. It had been decided to rest here on the riverbank for the night and to venture further afield in the morning. Most of the company chose to forego unpacking and pitching tents; only shelters for the king and earl were raised.

Athelstan was exhausted, but more than that, he felt horribly dirty. Many of the others had already begun to bathe and clean their kits in the stream, but he felt more of a need to be alone than to join them. With a word to Torstein to keep watch in his stead, Ragnar accompanied him on a short walk upstream, to a place where the water was deeper and wider, and the loud voices and laughter of the camp only a faint, background din.

It felt good to peel off the reeking clothes he’d been wearing for the past several days of the journey. The air was somewhat chillier as night was descending, but the rush of it across his sticky, damp skin felt good anyway. Soon, the pair of them had stripped off, and sank into the cool, fresh water to wash away the things other bodies had left upon theirs.

“How are you feeling?” Ragnar spoke the first words they had exchanged in nearly an hour.

A simple question, and yet the answer was too complex for him to immediately find a way to explain it. Instead, he just shrugged, and flashed a weak smile.

“I’m proud of how you did out there today. You exceeded even my high expectations.” Ragnar glided through the waist-high water toward him and petted his shoulder.

“Thank you. I . . . I’m not sure I had any expectations for myself, to be honest. Once it all started, the only thing on my mind was trying not to die.”

“And trying to avoid me dying, too, apparently.”

Athelstan grinned and looked away. “Well, yes. Of course.” Under the water, he reached for the arm ring and fondled it. It still felt new and heavy as it dangled from his wrist; a shackle, and yet one that represented his freedom. That he had bought his freedom with the deaths of others did not escape him, but the reality that he was now just as free as Ragnar, if still pledged in fealty to him, somehow seemed to override the guilt.

Ragnar changed the subject. “How are you enjoying being back in England?”

“It’s nice, though this part of it isn’t really my country. Wessex lies at the southern end of the island. North of here is the kingdom of Mercia, and then further north still lies Northumbria, where I am from. I have been here many times before, as part of my missionary work, but this isn’t quite the land of my birth.”

“It is beautiful nonetheless, though. Everything here is so green and rich. The land here must be incredibly easy to farm. I can imagine that the people here are well fed, and must grow many things we cannot. When I ate at King Aelle’s table, there were vegetables—delicious ones—that I did not recognize.”

Athelstan nodded. “Yes. It is lush country. Northumbria, as you’ve seen, is harsher territory, but even there farms do thrive.”

Ragnar leaned back in the water, floating and staring up at the moon now shining through the treetops. “I love my country, but I admit: I can imagine living here, were it not for the differences between our peoples.”

Athelstan’s eyes traveled over Ragnar’s moonlit torso. A stirring began chasing away his fatigue. “Perhaps those differences are not entirely insurmountable.”

Ragnar stood back up and wrung the water out of his hair. “How do you mean?”

“I won’t lie: Trying to get Christians to accept pagans among them would be difficult. There would be many clashes, I’m sure, between the different beliefs, and different ways of seeing the world and how people ought to be within it.” He smiled shyly. “And yet you and I are proof that it can be done. We are proof that our two cultures can merge.”

Ragnar returned the smile. “Indeed we are. I remember many years ago talking with you about how we could learn from each other—how we could gain the best of who each of us are and become better, more complete men for it. Seeing you fighting today has told me for certain that has happened on your part. You are easily the equal of any young Northman.”

“Thank you. I am honored and glad to hear you say that. And I would say that it has happened on your part, too. You still have all the fire in your belly that any other man has, but I now know there is so much more to you than the mindless savage I once thought you to be. I might even call you an educated man, as your people go, and no less strong for it.”

“Educated!” Ragnar repeated with a giggle. “I don’t think I have ever been called that before.”

“Yet it suits you.” Athelstan drew close to him, close enough to feel the warm heat of his body and breath. He ran a now-clean hand over Ragnar’s head, fingertips tracing the lines of the images inked on the clean-shaven skin there. “The strength of your arm is matched by the strength of your mind.”

Ragnar reached for him, hands caressing his shoulders, and massaging his way down the sore muscles of his arms. “The reverse is surely true for you.” He leaned over, and captured Athelstan’s mouth in a deep kiss.

Athelstan’s heartbeat quickened. Slipping his arms around Ragnar’s waist, he trailed his hands down the strong, sure muscles of his lover’s back, and pulled his body close. When they finally parted to catch a breath, a strange look crept over Ragnar’s face.

Athelstan frowned at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Ragnar turned and scanned their surroundings. Athelstan followed his eyes. Though it would’ve been hard to see anyone who might be deliberately hiding in the shadows, they seemed to be completely alone. Torstein had undoubtedly worked magic in keeping people away from where they were. He made a mental note to later ask Ragnar exactly why their good friend was so generous about this.

“We seem to be alone,” Athelstan noted.

“We are. I hear only the rustling of a deer nearby.”

“So why the odd expression?”

Ragnar gave him a half-smile; the kind he flashed when he was dissembling or being coy. “You earned your freedom today. You should take advantage of it.”

Athelstan raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

Ragnar turned in his arms and arched his back. He looked over his shoulder. “I am no longer your master. I am your earl, still, but that does not matter to me. I want us to be equals, in every way we can be.” He shifted his body, bringing them even closer. “Long have I taken pleasure from your body this way. Tonight, it is your turn to take pleasure from mine.”

Athelstan shuddered from head to toe with shock. For a moment, he considered protesting, or at least babbling questions, trying to make sure that Ragnar really did want what he was asking for and that he hadn’t just imagined that offer. But then he realized: the new man he was—this free man; this warrior—would not be so hesitant. So instead, he just smiled and purred into Ragnar’s ear, “Gladly.”

So novel was the act, and so hot was his blood that Athelstan’s passion quickly came to a peak. Had anyone asked at that moment, Athelstan would have claimed to know every star in the sky, and every creature in the seas. He would have claimed to know all the earth and every mystery of the universe. He felt as if the gods—Odin? Thor? The Christian God?—had spoken directly to every fiber of his body, and gave them great praise. It was a wild, heady thing, this sense of power and mastery over such a strong man, and something heretofore utterly alien to him. Pride, in his old life, was a deadly sin, along with several of the others he had committed this day, but it felt wonderful all the same.

He clung to Ragnar’s body for several moments after they had finished, but finally released him, to allow him to recoup. He settled back in the water and simply smiled drunkenly, watching Ragnar with love and admiration. There would eventually be words to describe what they had just experienced, but none were needed now.

Athelstan couldn’t help a shiver. The night air was now growing cold, as was the stream; his bare skin prickled with the chill. Yet, it mattered not. His nakedness, and the use to which it had just been put only reminded him: As he never had been when he was in his homeland before, he was, finally, free.


	18. A Man of Gentle Heart

Athelstan was never an exceptionally talkative man, yet his silence as the evening shadows descended on their camp was unusually deep, and this did not go unnoticed, as Ragnar learned.

“Are you well?” Ragnar asked as he entered the tent to find the young man sitting in a far corner, knees to his chest. “Torstein told me I should check on you. He said you seemed a little pale and quiet.” He left unspoken the other thing that Torstein had told him: that Floki had been teasing Athelstan with items they’d retrieved from the church on the morning’s raid. He made a mental note to upbraid his friend for the slights, even though he knew Floki—being Floki—would continue to do whatever his strange mind told him.

Athelstan looked up and smiled tiredly. “I am fine. It has been a long day—a long couple of days, actually. I’m still unused to this much physical labor. Muscles are sore and weak, is all.”

It was clear to Ragnar that that was not, actually, all. He had seen what happened in the church. He had seen Athelstan show mercy for the arrow-riddled priest, much to the annoyance of the men who had been amusing themselves with his pain. Setting aside his weapons and pulling off his armor, he settled in next to his lover. Being this close brought up memories of what they had done in the river last night, and he couldn’t help the quick thrill that ran through his pelvis. Yet it was clear that lovemaking was not what Athelstan needed or wanted right now—not that they could have. “I know you too well, Athelstan. Something has happened. Can you tell me what?”

Athelstan hesitated, but then let out the words. “I killed a monk today.” He hung his head, and put his face in his hands.

Ragnar frowned. “Did he attack you?”

“No. He surprised me, is all. I was distracted by something, and I suddenly noticed someone rushing up to me. I just reacted blindly and struck him.” He rubbed his eyes and looked back up. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way his face looked when he died.”

Ragnar slipped an arm around his shoulders, even though it was risky to do so; any of their company could enter the tent at any time. “I understand. These sorts of things happen when you’re unused to combat. Something similar happened to me when I was young.”

“Oh?”

“I killed a pregnant woman on one of my early raids to the east. I had just slain her husband and she came at me with a kitchen knife. I could have disarmed her and bound her, to keep her from attacking in her grief, but instead I slashed her throat. I didn’t think about it; it just happened. My instincts felt I was at risk even though she posed no real threat to me.” He petted Athelstan’s shoulder. “I’ll never forget her face, either. But it is a good thing that I remember, I think. I know many Northmen don’t care whom they kill, or even enjoy slaughtering those who can cause them no harm. But I am not one of them. I learned from the guilt I felt over killing that woman to pay more attention when I have a weapon in my hand.”

Athelstan stared at him, and then looked away; it seemed the story had not convinced him to stop feeling guilty.

Ragnar tried again. “I know you are at your bones a man of gentle heart. You are skilled with your axe and shield, and I am still very proud of you for how you have handled yourself. But I know that you are not like those who seek pleasure in bloodshed. I wanted you to be trained in combat to protect yourself. I did not intially believe that you would use your weapons offensively.”

Athelstan cocked his head. “Then why did you want me to come with you? Just to keep you company?”

“No—although I will not say that is not a very nice benefit of you being here.” He nudged Athelstan with a shoulder and grinned. “In large part I wanted you here to help with diplomacy. I know King Horik and many of the others only want to raid and plunder, but I have bigger plans, as you know. I want to see more of your England. I want to see if we might one day have a settlement here. Negotiating such things will require more of your language than I yet have mastered. It will also require your understanding of these people—of Christians. And it will undoubtedly require your peaceful heart. I believe you alone could truly convince them that we do not all wish only to destroy. They would trust the word of a priest over the word of a warrior.”

“So my skills with the axe . . .”

“. . . are mainly to ensure you don’t die in the meantime. You seemed to be enjoying yourself and doing well enough when we were fighting against soldiers, so I have not held you back, but I did not intend for you to be on the front lines. I would rather have you deep within the wall, and fighting only when necessary. Unless,” he added, “you want to do more.”

Athelstan went quiet, though, to Ragnar’s relief, he also leaned in to the half-embrace, and some of the tension left his body. Finally, he spoke again. “I think for now I would like to stay back, if that’s all right with you. I’m not certain that I am a good enough warrior to be of any great use in that capacity. I will gladly help you with your efforts to negotiate, but I would rather use my axe only at need, not desire. You are right that I did enjoy our battles against the soldiers. I believe I now understand the fire—the bloodlust—I have heard warriors talk about. I felt strong and powerful when I was fighting like that. But I did not feel strong at all killing people who were no threat to me.”

“Neither do I, my friend. I am in love with the things my sword helps me gain, not with the sword itself.” After a quick glace at the tent flap, he reached down to tilt Athelstan’s chin up, and kissed him lightly. “I am ambitious, you know that, but I admit that what gets me up every day is the thought of seeing you and Aslaug and my children, not the thought that I may cause someone else’s death.”

“I know. And that is why I love you, even if some of the rest of your people make me angry.” Athelstan reached for Ragnar’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m curious, though. You said that my use in negotiation was only a part of why you brought me with you. Was there something else? Aside from the companionship, of course.”

“You do not know?” Ragnar raised an eyebrow.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m lost.”

“You dear man.” Ragnar shook his head and smiled gently. “I brought you here because I wanted to take you home. I took you from this land. It is only fair that I also returned you to it.”

 

***

 

As the shore—and Athelstan’s stern expression—vanished from sight, Ragnar could not help a pained sigh. His eyes stung with a rush of tears, and he blinked and shook his head, trying to stop the flood before anyone saw it.

Torstein caught his eye anyway. There was understanding written on his face, which was a comfort, but there was also something else. Echoes of the words his friend had spoken a month ago—concern that Athelstan would want to leave him if he were finally free to do so—beat against his mind like storm-tossed waves. After all these years of seeming love and loyalty—not just being his lover, or his trusted steward, but being part of his family—could it be that Athelstan had never actually felt anything for him at all?

It couldn’t be like that, he tried to convince himself. After all, it was only yesterday that Athelstan had said again that he loved him. It was only the day before that he had gladly accepted the gifts Ragnar gave him—the arm ring and its freedom, yes, but also the gift of his body. Ragnar had trusted Athelstan so completely that he finally felt able to let down his guard and allow himself to be taken that way. He had, at that moment of their coupling, felt closer to him and more loved by him than he ever had felt before. Athelstan knew he was free then; if he felt nothing, he could have declined. He could even have run away from the camp. Yet he did not. He had, as with every night of their journey thus far, slept soundly by his earl’s side. Their bodies were far enough apart that no one would think anything untoward, but near enough to hear and feel him breathe; near enough for the occasional fond, gentle caress under the cover of night. That these moments that had brought Ragnar such joy and contentment might have meant nothing to Athelstan seemed impossible. And yet, here he was, sailing back to a home occupied by a traitor, without the man he loved by his side.

The one hope with which he was left was that Athelstan simply had never seemed capable of such subterfuge as would have been required to feign love for so many years. He wore his emotions upon his chest like a jewel. Knowing that Ragnar had been so invested in his ability to negotiate, he may simply have believed that that really was where he could best be of use—not trying to fight his way back to their control of Kattegat. He may only have been trying to serve Ragnar, as he had for so many years, with the best skills he had. Instead of wanting the opportunity to escape, and to stay in his homeland, he may have been holding in his gentle heart every expectation that someday soon, after Ragnar had liberated his village from a tyrant, his beloved would come back for him—back to a peace and plenty that he himself had negotiated in Ragnar’s stead.  

That thought gave Ragnar some measure of hope, and he heaved a steadying breath. Consciously, he clung to the belief, and held it at the forefront of his mind along with the belief that the rest of his family were somewhere safe and cared for. The alternative—that he might again have lost all that he held dear, including Athelstan this time—was simply too much to bear. _Wait for me, my love_ , he pleaded silently as the boat carried him ever farther away. _I will return_.


	19. The Valkyries

For several seconds, Athelstan wondered if he was still hallucinating. Then he wished he had been.

The young Saxon soldier looked nearly dead, so thoroughly had he been beaten by some of Horik's men. When they shoved him through the flap of the tent, he collapsed weakly at Athelstan's feet, too broken even to meet his eye.

"We brought you a gift!" One of the soldier's tormentors—Ulf? Olaf? Something like that—sneered at Athelstan.

"I don't understand." His instinct was to help the soldier, but something told him that wouldn't be wise.

The other Northman, whom Athelstan remembered as Rego, laughed harshly. "You didn't seem interested in taking any of the women we captured, so we figured we'd bring you something else—something you might want more."

He felt the blood drain out of his face, and what little he'd managed to eat today threatened to work its way back up his throat. Fear rising, he scrambled to his feet, and set a hand on his axe.

"Please," the soldier managed to croak, in Athelstan's language.

Athelstan tried to ignore him. "What would I want with him?"

Rego kicked the soldier. "This is what you like, isn't it? It's clear you don't like women."

Athelstan tried to put up a strong presence. "I do like women. I just don't like raping them. I prefer them moaning my name, not screaming." He hoped he sounded convincing.

"Right," Olaf said sarcastically. "Don't make us laugh. It's pretty obvious what Ragnar keeps you around for. Why would he bring on a raid a useless Christian—one who doesn't even like to kill? Go on, priest. Give this soldier what you give your master."

Athelstan's cheeks flushed with sudden anger. "Ragnar is not my master. I am a free man, and you would be wise to remember that before insulting me in such a way." He held up his arm, the ring there flashing. For a moment, the men looked slightly worried, and backed off a little. This gave him courage to continue. "As for why Ragnar brought me, it is because of my skill with languages, since none of you imbeciles would know the first thing about how to talk to these people. The king himself wished me to stay behind for that reason." By way of demonstration, he crouched down and finally caught the soldier's eye. "Fear not," he said in his native tongue. "I will not harm you any further."

A momentary look of peace crossed the soldier's broken face. "Thank you," he whispered.

Athelstan rose again. "This soldier is no threat to you. It is no proof of your manhood to harm someone who does not have the strength to fight back. Only men who are weak would try to prove themselves thus." He narrowed his eyes, and began fondling his axe in earnest. "Should you wish to prove your manhood for real, you might consider fighting someone who is armed and hale. But I warn you: should you harm or kill me, you will have your king to answer to."

"Rego, we should—" Olaf stepped toward the exit.

"No! I will not bear such insolence from this mongrel." Rego drew his sword, and for a moment, Athelstan was convinced he had dug himself too deep a hole. His heart thumping, he slipped his axe free of its ring and dropped into a defensive stance.

"What's this?" The tent flap parted again, and one of the shieldmaidens in Horik's entourage—a tall, dark-haired woman who looked equal the size of nearly any man in the camp—strode in. "Rego? Olaf? What fuckery are you doing, now? What have you done to my captive?"

" _Your_ captive?" Olaf's cheeks went pale.

" _My_ captive," she reiterated. "I was the one who found him lurking on the edge of our camp. I took him for my own pleasure, and now I see you have not only stolen him, but ruined him for that purpose. Well done, you sheep's arse." She pulled an enormous, two-handed axe from her belt, and raised it. For a moment, it looked as if she was going to take off both Rego's and Olaf's heads with a single stroke, but then the axe whistled past them, and its edge buried deeply into the battered soldier's chest. With a final look of both pain and relief, the soldier expired.

"There." The shieldmaiden wiped her bloody blade across Rego's tunic, and slid it back into her belt. "Now get this corpse out of here before it draws vermin to our supplies."

Scrambling to comply, Rego and Olaf dragged the limp body from the tent, leaving a dark trail of blood behind.

Athelstan stared at her with a mixture of fear, awe, and, to his slight horror, a little arousal. For a moment, he saw in her face some of the things he had always loved about Lagertha. His baser self wondered briefly whether he should offer himself up as a replacement for her lost captive.

"Sorry about those two," she said, her nose wrinkling. "Between them they haven't got half a brain."

Athelstan chuckled nervously. "So it would seem."

"If they give you any more trouble, come find me," she said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We aberrations of nature ought to stick together."

He frowned at her. "Aberrations?"

She laughed. "Don't tell me I've got you wrong! I'm never wrong. I have a third eye for these things."

Another rustle at the tent flap caught their attention. Coming in behind her was another shieldmaiden, this one shorter, blonde, and robust, with a pair of long daggers at her generous hips. "Elsie! I wondered where you'd got to. I just saw Rego and Olaf carrying that soldier we found. What happened?"

Elsie rolled her eyes. "Three guesses, Birgit, and the first two don't count."

"Idiots," Birgit huffed. "He was a nice sort, that Saxon, even if I couldn't understand a word he said. I was looking forward to having some fun with him after dark."

Athelstan shifted nervously. "Fun," he repeated, almost under his breath.

Elsie laughed. "Yes, fun. And not just for us."

"What?"

Birgit smirked. "We caught him because he was spying on us as we were bathing, the dirty boy. He didn't seem to mind being taken captive."

"Oh! I see. I think." Athelstan's vision was beginning to swim, and he started wondering again if his mind had taken off without him.

"Terrible shame he's dead, now," Birgit continued. "He was such a lovely young thing."

"He was, yes. Pity those two dung heaps messed him up so." Elsie sighed.

A sly smile crawled over Birgit's face, and she took a couple of steps toward Athelstan. "Of course, now that means we're alone for the night. Not that we mind," she cast a significant look at Elsie, "but we'd been looking forward to a treat."

Elsie came up beside her, and stroked a hand down Athelstan's arm. "Normally, we prefer each other's company, but we make the occasional exception."

Suddenly, all became clear in Athelstan's mind, and the shock of it nearly bowled him over. He took a step back, trying to gather his thoughts.

"Whoa!" Elsie laughed. "I knew I was right!"

Birgit elbowed her and chuckled. "You were! What was it, the day we left the dock in Kattegat when you said . . .?"

Elsie nodded. "It was just the way he looked at the earl. Too obvious by far."

Athelstan, a little perturbed at being spoken about as if he wasn't there, cleared his throat. "Wait."

Elsie turned back to him, an eyebrow raised. "I _am_ right, yes?"  

He stopped and started several equivocations before giving up. "Yes. To a degree." A sudden panic took him. "But please say nothing to anyone!"

Birgit squeezed his arm. "Of course not, you sweet idiot. Why would we risk giving ourselves away?"

Athelstan relaxed again. "Ah! Right."

Elsie cocked her head. "Just a moment. You said, 'to a degree.' What does that mean?"

He looked back and forth between the pair. A raw, wild part of himself wanted to tell them that he, too could make an exception, especially for the two of them. He considered exactly how tickled Torstein would be when they saw each other again and he related the tawdry tale. He even wondered if being with them might serve to keep the rumors about him at bay, and thus help keep him safe. But the momentary flash of lust was shortly replaced by every other feeling he'd had the past couple of days, and none of them were the least bit friendly to such an idea. More than anything, he couldn't stop thinking about the hurt, angry look on Ragnar's face as his boat pulled away from the shore. While his body might well enjoy having a night of carnal companionship with the two bold women, his heart would only break further at being in the arms of someone aside from the man he loved. "Nothing," he finally said.  

Elsie didn't look convinced, but she stepped back from him anyway. "Fair enough," she said.

Birgit started to say something, but stopped when Elsie nudged her with a shoulder.

"The sky begins to grow dark, my love," Elsie said gently, reaching for her lover's hand. "We should bid our friend here good night."

Birgit sighed sadly, looking Athelstan up and down as if she were starving and sizing up a feast-laden table. "We should, I suppose." Leaning forward, she dropped a kiss on his cheek anyway. "Be well."

"I will try." He managed a weak smile.

Elsie patted his shoulder again. "I meant what I said about finding me—either of us, actually. Some of these men are horrid creatures and they need to be kept in line. Without your friends and your earl here, you might be in some danger. We can keep an eye out for you if you'd like."

Athelstan finally sprouted a genuine smile, and for the first time that day, felt almost safe. "I would like that. Thank you."

 

His dreams the past several days had been distinctly awful, but at least one this night was pleasant. Atop a corpse-strewn hill, he cowered, surrounded on all sides by a bevy of muscled, blood-spattered women who bellowed mightily as they slayed every attacker that meant to kill him. At the forefront stood the proudest of all: blonde braids dancing and familiar voice singing out battle cries as her sword bit again and again into enemy flesh. That she wore no armor—indeed, she wore nothing  whatsoever—didn't seem to hinder her at all.  


	20. Martyr

It seemed to Athelstan that his mind had been wrapped in a thick, woolen blanket. He perceived a few snippets of what was going on around him: a man’s gentle voice; the soft, wrinkled hands of an aged healer as he was bathed; the sharp smell of alcohol and pungent herbs; the taste of an onion-laden broth. Most of it, however, was a big blur. A part of his brain realized why—he must have been given a tincture of opium—but he otherwise could not think clearly enough to truly understand what was happening. He murmured prayers to himself when he could move his lips, but was otherwise still, days passing without his acknowledgement of them.

One morning, however, he woke to a relatively clear mind. His body ached at every point, inside and out, but he at least felt somewhat alert.

“Sire! He is awake.” The gravelly voice of an old one—Woman? Man?—sounded near his head.

“Thank you!” Footsteps on a wooden floor, and then the pressure of someone sitting on the edge of where he lay. “Can you hear me, Athelstan?” A warm hand stroked his cheek.

“Yes.” The word was cracked, as dry as his lips. He opened his eyes. They took a moment to focus, but then the image snapped in: The person sitting next to him was an older man, with kind, curious eyes. He was gray of beard and hair, and clad in rich fabrics. Upon his head . . . Athelstan tried to sit up. “Sire!”

“Easy!” The warm hand guided him back down. “You needn’t rise for me.”

Athelstan tried to settle back down, but he now recognized the face. It was the king; the one who had saved him from . . . from _that_.

All at once, the memories, far more clear than he wanted, came surging back.

 

***

 

He thought he was saved. Speaking the language of his attackers had led to his life being spared once; surely it would work again. For a short time, it did. The soldiers who had found him believed his story, and chose not to kill him outright. It wasn’t until he had been brought to the village that things changed. Ecbert was occupied with other business, they said, so they took him to another authority.

“Athelstan, is it? That is a Saxon name.” The bishop’s round face was pinched with skepticism. “You say you are one of us?”

It felt like a lie to say it. “I am, your Excellency. I was a monk at Lindisfarne. I was captured by the Northmen and kept as a slave for many years.”

“And are you still a slave now? You are dressed like a warrior. Do these Northmen allow their slaves armor and weapons?” He picked up Athelstan’s axe, which had been confiscated and set aside.

Athelstan could not help a glance down at the ring encircling his left arm. “I am no longer a slave. I was freed.”

“Indeed. And how long ago did this happen? How long have you been a free man?”

The days since Ragnar had left had begun to melt together. “A week? Two?” He suddenly remembered that Ragnar had visited this place, and had come back with news of good negotiation just before he got word of the attack on Kattegat. “You have spoken with my master—my former master—Ragnar Lothbrok. He is the earl of the village where I was kept.”

The bishop’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. I recognize you now. You were with the party that took the prince hostage while the king treated with this . . . Ragnar.”

“I was. I was also at our—at the camp of the Northmen—when you came to deliver the message from the king. I imagine you did not see me then.”

“I did not, no. But I am curious.” He took a couple of steps toward Athelstan, while fondling the axe. “How is it that a slave—or a man who had been one until so recently—would have been in such elite company?”

Athelstan’s heart began racing. “I am Ragnar’s steward. He has kept me in a position of trust. He values my knowledge and experience.”

“Your knowledge. Of what? What knowledge might a monk have had that such a savage would need? Did he need you to illuminate books for him? Books on battle tactics or weapons, perhaps?” He laughed, and the soldiers who surrounded them laughed with him.

Athelstan stared at the axe in the bishop’s hands, wondering if he could somehow snatch it up, and fight his way out. “My . . . my knowledge of England. Of the language.”

“And what use could that be, I wonder?” The bishop cocked his head. “What I wonder even more: Why would you offer such information to him?”

Athelstan began to tremble, and sweat prickled his skin. “I don’t understand your meaning, Excellency.”

“I cannot help but wonder why a servant of God would serve a heathen. I cannot help but wonder why you gave him such service.”

“As I said, I was a slave, I—“

The bishop pushed the blade of the axe against Athelstan’s chest. “Your savior laid down his life for the sake of the greater good, and yet you could not do the same? You valued your own life over the well-being of Christians? Tell me the truth, monk: you are not one of us at all, are you?”

“You do not understand. I was captured. They forced me—“ As the blade pressed at the leather of his vest, he gave up. He himself did not believe the words he was saying; how could he convince this bishop of their truth? He dropped to his knees. “I beg your mercy, Excellency. Yes, I was one of them, for a time. But I wish to return to my homeland. I wish to return to my faith. I wish to serve God once again.”

“Oh, you will serve Him, apostate.” The bishop’s face twisted into a feral smile. He flung the axe aside, and looked up at the soldiers. “Come! This heathen needs to be reminded of the dear sacrifice that our lord Jesus made for his worthless soul.”

Athelstan looked up, just long enough to see the mailed fist aimed at his face. The world went dark.

 

He awoke to find himself in an open field, being manhandled by the soldiers. He could see little; one eye had nearly swollen shut, and his vision in the other was still blurred from the blow that had knocked him unconscious. He still could feel what was happening, however. His leather vest and belt had already been cut from him. His boots were being dragged off. One tall, broad-shouldered man grabbed at his tunic and began to tear, ripping the fabric apart at the chest.

“Please!” Athelstan cried. “Don’t do this!” He was backhanded across the mouth, hard enough to loosen a tooth. He tasted blood.  

The men at his feet moved up, cutting the laces of his breeches with a knife and yanking them off of his hips. His tunic now in tatters, it was pulled from his body and tossed aside. Soon, he was left with nothing but undergarments, which to his small relief his captors allowed to remain. The air was cool and damp, and he shivered at the touch of it on his bare skin. It also chilled the metal of his armring. He glanced down at it, silently begging whatever gods might be listening that it not be taken from him. His captors did pass over it, but only because they had other things to do.

The broad-shouldered man grabbed his arms, dragging him to his feet, and led him to a nearby stone outcropping. He shoved hard in the middle of Athelstan’s back, causing him to splay out on the rocks. The pain at hitting his knee on the hard surface was soon supplanted by something far worse. He heard a whistle in the air, and then the skin of his back lit on fire. He screamed.

Over and over again the whip made contact with his body. He twisted and turned under the lash, but could not escape it. Its sharp tongue licked at his belly, his arms, his thighs. He felt a nipple begin to swell and throb, and an ill-aimed blow had also raised a welt on his neck. In between the echo of his own screams in his ears, he heard something else: the buzz and rustle of a gathering crowd. Not only had he been stripped and lashed, but his pain and humiliation were also being put on display, for the amusement of some of the townsfolk. His stomach turned, and he vomited.

The blows finally stopped, and he caught his breath, only to be dragged from the rock and shoved to his knees before the bishop.

“I have something here for you, apostate.” The bishop held a circlet of rough-woven vines. Laughing to himself, he pushed it down on Athelstan’s head, and the jutting thorns dug into his skin.

“ _Kýrie eléison_ ,” Athelstan begged. “ _Christe eléison_.”

No mercy came.

 

***

 

“Athelstan?” The gentle voice filtered into his conscious mind.

“No!” he murmured, and began to flail, much as the movement hurt.  

The hand touched his cheek again. “Please, calm yourself. You are safe. You are under my protection. I will not let them harm you again.”

He stared at the kindly face. For a moment, he saw an unkempt, blond beard, and a partly-shaved, ink-decorated head. He saw bright, almost unnaturally blue eyes. “Ragnar,” he breathed. "You have come back for me!"

“Ragnar?” The face frowned. “I am not Ragnar. I am King Ecbert.”

The proper countenance came into focus. “Oh. Forgive me, sire,” he managed to say. He could not help but sound disappointed, however.

“No harm done. I take it you know Ragnar well, though, yes?”

Had it not hurt to do so, he would have smiled. “Yes. Very well.”

“Bishop Edmund said he was once your master. I had wondered where the Northman had learned to speak our language. Now I know.” He smiled at some internal amusement. “He is an . . . interesting man, that one.”

Afraid of saying too much, Athelstan only nodded, though inside his head, a wash of pleasant memories began to play.

“Well,” the king continued, his hand stroking down Athelstan’s cheek and coming to rest on the side of his neck, “I hope that perhaps you might come to find me interesting, too.”


	21. Absent Friends

The atmosphere in the farmhouse was tense as they waited for the cover of dusk to begin the sabotage mission. Yet even so, there was something strangely calming—almost normal—for Lagertha in watching her son play with his half brothers while Aslaug sat nearby, nursing baby Sigurd and gently chiding her boys as needed. Lagertha had expected to feel envy and humiliation on meeting again the woman who had given her former husband what she could not, yet she couldn’t muster up those emotions. Instead, she felt pity and perhaps some gentle affection for the princess, who seemed to be well out of her depth trying to manage her family in such a rustic place. Her heart did not wish to see them suffer so, and she was pleased that she was doing what she could to return them to their accustomed comfort and safety.

Ragnar sat next to her, fortifying himself for the operation with a hearty meal. "I cannot tell you how it gladdens my heart to see you, Lagertha. I understand now why you wished to leave, but I am grateful to once again have you in my company. I have missed you not only as a woman, but as a friend."

“Thank you.” She favored him with a tired, but genuine smile. "My new husband thinks I wished to do this for you, to shame him. He does not understand that you alone are not the only person I left behind in Kattegat." She looked around the room, eyes settling on the many people she had missed.  "I am pleased to see so many here whom I have loved." She glanced back over at him. "There is one I do not, however. Tell me: Where is Athelstan?"

A dark look came over Ragnar's face, and he chewed thoughtfully on a bite of bread. When he had finally finished, he sighed. "I took Athelstan with us when we raided west with King Horik. When we heard of Jarl Borg's treachery, I assumed he would return with us—return to defend his home—but he chose to stay behind. Horik wanted to remain there, and so requested him as a translator. He agreed." He mopped meat juices from his plate with another chunk of bread.

She frowned at him. "I do not understand. Why did you not just take him with you anyway?"

He smiled sadly. "I no longer had the right to do so."

She stared at him in shock. "Are you saying you freed him?"

He nodded, and stuffed the soggy bread in his mouth.

"After so many years of avoiding that, what made you change your mind?" She glanced around the room. "I thought you were worried about what others might think," she whispered.

He took a sip of ale before responding. "I was. I am, still. The reason for that worry still stands. But Athelstan has truly become a Northman, or at least so I would like to believe. Honestly, you would not recognize him now." He grinned at her. "His hair has grown long, and his beard is full. He stopped wearing that cross and prays to Odin. He has developed some great skill with an axe and shield."

Lagertha had to laugh a little. It seemed absurd to think of the timid, soft-spoken Christian she once had known conducting himself like the manliest of Northmen. "I must say that I cannot quite imagine it, but I believe you."

"Had I not seen his changes with my own eyes, I would not believe it myself, but change he has . . . in many ways." Ragnar's cheeks flushed, and he looked down at his plate. "He proved himself very well in our first battle in England, and so I gifted him with an arm ring. He was delighted enough that he spent most of the next morning showing it to anyone who crossed his path."

That, she could see the young man doing. "It seems he really is one of us now, then. What would have made him choose to stay behind?"

"Would that I could see into his mind and learn the answer to that. My head wants me to believe that he is only trying to fulfill a duty to my aspirations and help us maintain relations with the Saxons. My heart, however, is not so certain. There was some flicker of unease in him the day before I left. We had raided another Christian temple, and he killed some of the men there. I believe the guilt over that may have driven a wedge in him."

She winced. "Then you think he may have turned against you? I cannot see that."

He shrugged. "I could not see it myself, but as you know, I am prone to fits of arrogance. Perhaps I believed, as I did with Rollo—as I did with you—that I was so impressive a man that he could not choose against me."

“I won’t argue against your having moments of arrogance.” She nudged him with an elbow. "And I understand that things may have changed since I left. Yet, I can tell you this: When I decided to leave, I asked him to come with me. He refused, and very nearly refused my request for help in getting me the cover I needed to go. I believe that misleading you like that, with that hunting trip, was one of the most difficult things he ever had to do. I love him, and I believe he had love for me, too, but his devotion to you was unmatched. Unless you have been gravely mistreating him all this time, I am sure it still is."

Ragnar scanned her face. His hand moved like he wanted to touch her, but he pulled it back. "I hope that you are right, but I still have doubts. More than that, however, I also have fears for his safety."

"Do you think the Saxons would try to attack, if they saw the forces had been divided?"

"Perhaps, but I met with the king of the country that we landed in: Ecbert of Wessex, not Aelle of the North. He seemed to me to be a reasonable, if determined man. We were on the verge of making a deal—some of our warriors in exchange for some of his land—when I got the news of Kattegat. I therefore cannot see him attacking unprovoked. But King Horik . . ." He leaned toward her, and his voice dropped to the barest hiss. "I do not trust that man. He seems to live for destruction and plunder. He claimed to want Athelstan for help with negotiation, but in my years of experience with him, I do not believe him to be a negotiating man. It was his decision to leave Jarl Borg behind; to break the agreement we had had to raid together. He must have known what might happen from such an insult. _I_ knew it; that was why I left Rollo behind. So I fear for Athelstan's safety not only from the Saxons, but from within."

A nasty chill ran through her chest. Given how Horik had dragged Ragnar into his dispute with Borg in the first place, she could see him being treacherous enough to want to spoil Ragnar’s plans for exploration and possible settlement in the West. “Athelstan does not see this, though, does he?”

Ragnar shook his head. “I am in deep awe of Athelstan’s knowledge and intelligence on matters of fact, but his understanding of how people behave is woefully naïve. I feel as if I have left a newborn lamb among slavering wolves, and my heart is sick for it.”

The door to the farmhouse swung open, and Torstein strolled in, carrying a brace of rabbits he had shot to help supplement the evening meal for the large entourage. He spoke to Ragnar. “The sun has reached the tops of the western trees.”

Ragnar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then it is time we begin the trek to Kattegat. Bjorn?”

Their son looked up from tickling Hvitserk. “I am ready, father. My good friend Olrik,” he indicated the fair young man who sat nearby “has agreed to join us, to provide cover while we are burning the grain.”

“And one of my company will come as well.” Ragnar rose, and nodded toward one of his men. “Ready our horses.”

As Ragnar strolled over to bid farewell to his wife and small children, Lagertha moved to meet her own son. He had proven himself skilled in training, but she still worried about the potential for him to be harmed in this, his first venture into real danger. She trusted Ragnar to keep him as safe as possible, but she was still a mother; she still worried.

She watched him mount his horse, and the small party venture forth on their way to the village. As they left, her heart ached, but not just for her son and the former husband for whom she still cared. She ached as well for the innocent young man who once had been her closest friend, who was now in a dangerous place so far away. Her usual instincts to raise a sword and shield in protection of those she loved were useless, now. There was but one thing left she could do.

“Keep them safe, Allfather,” she murmured as the party rode out of sight. “Keep _all_ of them safe.”  


	22. The Body and the Blood

“Are you well?” The king settled his arm around Athelstan’s shoulders as they left the sanctuary. “You looked a little pale in there.”

Aethelwulf pushed past them, shooting a dark look at the former priest as he did.

Athelstan shivered. “I am all right, Sire,” he lied. “Only tired.”

The king scanned his face, which was still marked with wounds and bruises. “And in pain, if I am correct.”

Athelstan looked away, afraid to acknowledge the truth, lest his attempts to ignore said pain fail. He had seen in the past what too much reliance on opium could do to a person. As he did not want to suffer that fate, he had refused any further doses from the healer once he could walk again, preferring instead to partake of wine or ale as he could—not that they helped very much. Still, what troubled him most at the moment was not pain, but the way his head still reeled from the service.

The king gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Well, I am not surprised. It’s not been long since you were first able to rise from your sick bed. You’ve probably overtaxed yourself. Why not go back to your room and take some rest? I can do without your presence for the evening.” He smiled.

Athelstan returned the smile, though it hurt to do so. “Thank you, Sire. I shall.” Shifting his crutch under his arm, he bowed as best he could, then began the long hobble back to the dirt-encrusted storeroom where he had been given a place to sleep. In the past several days that he had been keeping company with the king—including, much to his shock, at court—he’d gotten the impression that the man might actually prefer that his new “pagan” friend dwell closer to his own chambers—much closer. He had not yet offered such a place, however, and Athelstan wasn’t going to ask. For one, the king seemed as yet to be his only friend in this place, and he didn’t wish to risk angering him with an incorrect assumption. For another, even though Athelstan ached for the comfort of closer contact, the king wasn’t the one from whom he wanted it.

On the short, painful walk to his meager home, Athelstan could not help a wave of nausea, as the residue of the Eucharist still coated his mouth. When he was a monk, he had welcomed the taste of the communion bread and wine. In his faith, they became the body and blood; he reveled in the presence of Christ inside him. Today, however, the bread was like foul paste and the wine was bitter and smelled of vinegar. His stomach turned the moment he entered the sanctuary, and did not stop until he left it; until he left the sight, the sound, and the smell of the vile man who had stood at the altar.

Since being able to leave the care of the healers, he had managed to avoid crossing paths with the hateful bishop who had crucified him. Their only contact was by proxy; the king had ordered that Athelstan be provided with clothing, since his own had been destroyed, so the bishop sent over a habit and all its trimmings—no layman’s clothes for the apostate. Yet of course there was no avoiding the bishop at Mass. And thanks to the king’s son, there was also no avoiding Mass.

However generous the king had been in ensuring that the man he rescued was properly cared for and shown respect, the prince clearly didn’t have the same benevolent feelings. Athelstan remembered Aethelwulf from his brief time in the Northmen’s camp as a hostage, but they’d had little direct contact. King Horik had made certain to keep them separate, allowing only Torstein, with his limited language ability, to communicate. Perhaps, Athelstan figured, Horik thought the two Christians would conspire if allowed to talk. In any case, the prince had seemed unimpressed by the Northmen, and his distaste for Athelstan was evident. Lest he risk angering Aethelwulf, and his father by proxy, Athelstan had no choice but to obey and once again, for the first time in many years, practice the rites of his past.

The rhythms of the service were still woven into his being so tightly that he knew them like his own name. His world had changed drastically since his last attendance at one, though, and now it seemed nearly barbaric, much the same as he once had found the rituals of the Northmen. In Lindisfarne, he had believed his faith to be in a God of peace and mercy. Here, under this bishop, the Almighty was an instrument of control and vengeance, and one far more terrible and frightening than any pagan sacrifice ever had been. That realization made both his head and stomach swim, and reality began to crack. For a fleeting moment as he received the _corpus_ and _sanguis_ , he wondered if his portion had been poisoned, his tormentor still wanting desperately to see the apostate dead. Yet his visions had begun before the bread touched his tongue; that alone could not take the blame. Without the flow of opium in his veins, there was but one option left: as broken as his body was, his mind was likely even more so. Healing it would be no easy task—perhaps not one a fallible mortal such as he could accomplish.

He finally made it to his room, fumbled with lighting a candle, and then sat heavily on the edge of the bed. He leaned his crutch against a table and rubbed at his eyes, even though it made the bruises ache to do so. For a moment, it seemed he saw perfectly clearly: the dirt floor; the shelves of baskets. On the table he saw the stack of books and the box in which lay his treasured arm ring: the one thing he still owned. A flicker of light against his cheek caught his eye. He turned. On the crucifix that the bishop had so kindly provided him, the Savior was illuminated in the golden light from the candle flame. For a moment, he braced himself, expecting what he saw to be followed with a hallucination of some sort. Strangely, however, his mind remained calm and clear; he saw only the carving, and the highlight upon it.  

In the days since his torture, he had occasionally called upon the Allfather for help. His conscious habit of the past years had been to do so, even if the vision in his mind was less of a one-eyed old man and more of a blue-eyed young one. Today, however, neither image seemed to be right. He stared instead at the image of Jesus, longing for it to tell him something, and recalled one snippet of memory from his own time upon the cross: he had repeated the last words that Christ spoke. _In manus tuas, Domine_ ; he had delivered himself into the hands of God, and in return, he had been sent an Earthly king. He had been sent the man who saved his life, who had helped care for him as he recovered, and who seemed genuinely interested in his well-being.  

Odin had not responded to him in all the time he had been here. Perhaps he did not travel to this part of Midgard at all, Athelstan supposed. Despite the actions of the vile bishop who pretended to speak for him, however, it seemed the God of his homeland might still be listening.

With one last glance at the box that contained his last link to his far-away adopted home, and the people there whom he loved, he dropped to his knees and began to pray.


	23. Hope

Ragnar never feared death for himself. He knew that the greatest likelihood of his manner of demise would be a glorious fall in battle. The gods would welcome him to Valhalla with open arms and generous smiles, and his people would sing and praise his great deeds long after his body had become ash. He also didn't mourn the battle deaths of his friends for the same reason. They would meet again, he knew, in those gilded halls, just as with those he lost to sacrifice.

Yet there were some deaths that gnawed at his very being like a sick hunger; deaths that would stay with him, shiny and hot as an undressed wound, as he mourned the loss. Gyda. The son Lagertha would have borne him. And now, he feared, Athelstan. He could have died in battle, Ragnar supposed, but though the untrained priest had shown surprising skill and courage in their raids, that wasn't a given. Even if he did die bravely, there was still no guarantee that Ragnar would see him again in Valhalla someday. For all Athelstan's professed claim of the Allfather, there were hints in his voice that he saw Odin only as a face of his Christian God. If the Christian Heaven claimed him, there would be no Valhalla reunion. And if instead it were the Christian Hell … he shook his head, trying to clear the thought.

"You are restless, husband." Aslaug's voice was thick with sleep. Nearby, their baby son whimpered softly; it would soon be time for him to be at the breast again.

"I am sorry," Ragnar murmured. He turned, stroking a lock of damp hair from her face. He looked into her half-lidded eyes, wondering for a moment what she really saw with them. He hadn't yet gone to the Seer with his worry about Athelstan; the old man barely tolerated the supposedly former Christian as it was. Yet perhaps his wife's gift might let her mind sail the turbulent seas to search for him. He took a breath, preparing himself to ask.

"You worry about Athelstan, do you not?"

She at least could see inside his own head, it seemed. Ragnar smiled. "Yes." Though his new wife had never loved Athelstan the way Lagertha had—and still did, if the alarm etched on her face when she heard the news was any indication—she nonetheless accepted her husband's affection for him. He was as generous and loving with her sons as he ever had been with Bjorn and Gyda: changing their swaddling clothes, playing with them, soothing them with sips of thick goat's milk when Aslaug was too exhausted to quickly rise to feed them and a wet nurse wasn't nearby. As they had grown, Ubbe and Hvitserk claimed him as much as their father did, if not in the same way. It was clear Athelstan missed Lagertha and Bjorn dearly, and probably held some anger at Ragnar for forcing them to leave, but Ragnar's new family was his as well. Thus, Aslaug tolerated their closeness, even looking the other way when Ragnar spent the occasional night in the priest's bed instead of theirs. Ragnar's flirting with comely maidens might spark her territorial feelings, but Athelstan could not give him sons; she feared his affections not, and had said as much. For this, Ragnar was grateful. She may have prevented Lagertha from wanting to stay, but at least he could keep his priest. That is, if his own hubris hadn't caused him to lose the man for good.

Aslaug closed her eyes and chewed her lip. She hummed quietly. Finally, her eyes flipped open again. "I can't see him," she said sadly. "Clouds and shadow obscure my path to him. I feel pain, but nothing more."

Ragnar released the tense breath he'd been holding, and unbidden, the sting of wetness came to his eyes. He turned away, staring in the weak firelight at the shifting shadows on the ceiling beams. "Thank you for trying," he said, patting her hand. "Go back to sleep."

She rolled over again, but the baby's whimpering became stronger. She rubbed a hand across her sore breasts. "I need to get up anyway." She turned back to Ragnar. "There may be one thing that could give you hope."

"Oh?" He propped up on an elbow.

"I think he loves both Odin and his god. Perhaps they do not fight over him, or resent each other for his split faith. Perhaps instead they both watch over him." She unfastened her gown and rose. "Perhaps they will guard him until you can go find him yourself."

Soon, soft suckling sounds were the only ones left in the room. Ragnar's physical exhaustion took over, and he drifted off. As he did, a half dream floated through his mind: a raven aloft at the prow of a ship, crying out its joy at seeing the green land to the west.


	24. Precious Things

The pain of Athlestan’s wounds still bothered him, but at least now, several weeks on from his trauma, he could walk without a crutch, dress himself without wanting to scream, and grasp a spoon without it falling from his cramped, stiff fingers. On the king’s orders, he had been well fed and given salves to keep his scars from feeling raw, which helped in his recovery. Mentally, he was still fragile—occasionally crossing paths with the bishop and a few of the soldiers who had tortured him didn’t help—but physically, at least, he was starting to come back to normal.

The more he healed, the more the king wanted of his time, taking frequent meals with him, keeping him close by as he held court, and asking his opinion “as a pagan,” even though Athelstan had insisted to him that he had rededicated himself to God. The bishop and some of the ealdormen expressed concerns about this closeness, insisting that the apostate was not to be trusted—that he might have been left behind as a spy or saboteur. However, the rest of the Northmen had left the shores long ago, Ecbert pointed out in dismissing their concerns. They had seemingly abandoned their once captive, likely thinking him dead, and thus even if he were inclined to treachery, there was nowhere and no-one to go to with any information.

So it was as the late-summer days began to grow noticeably shorter that the king often gave Athelstan leave to quit the grounds entirely, and spend a morning wandering in the nearby woods, taking in the beauty of God’s creation while the weather was still warm and bright and the migratory birds had not yet begun their journeys south. Robins and sparrows and thrushes he spied, envying them their wings and simple lives. Ravens he spied as well, though their presence was a comfort that was at times hard to accept.

Whatever his non-human company in the woods, however, Athelstan welcomed the time alone. Though he had come to enjoy the king’s close attention, he occasionally felt a little penned in by it. It had not escaped him that he had, at least for the past several years, felt more free while technically being owned by Ragnar than he felt now being an actual free man among his cultural kin. He tried not to think often about that, however. Much as he was trying to reform himself as a dedicated Saxon and Christian, he still missed Ragnar dearly and wondered what had become of him and his family and friends as they tried to regain control of Kattegat. The pain of not knowing was even worse than the pain of the separation.

One morning as Athelstan returned to his room from a walk, he found a surprise waiting. On his bed, folded neatly, was the black formal habit of a Benedictine—a much more comfortable and less austere garment—and beside it lay a sheaf of vellum, several brushes and quills, and pots of ink and paint. Almost instantly, tears sprang to his eyes. The last time he had held a proper quill was the moment before he killed the poor, young monk at Winchester. Before that . . . he had lost count of the years, and now all the sense memory of his craft came flooding back.

When he lived with the Northmen, he often found himself trying to write and draw the way he used to. He would save a few long goosefeathers when plucking the birds for the cooks, and make his own crude inks and paints from crushed flowers or vegetable skins. Paper or vellum being alien to the people, he had no easy surfaces on which to mark, but occasionally he was able to find some thin planks of wood, or undyed fabric that he was able to doodle upon. It was not, however, remotely the same as what he had done at Lindisfarne. That he now once again posessed the means to properly do the work he had learned before his voice had even cracked flooded him with a sense of purpose he had not felt in a very, very long time. He reached for a quill and began to fondle it lovingly.

“Do you like them?”

Athelstan spun at the voice. The king stood in the doorway, a beatific smile on his face. “Sire!” He bowed quickly, then returned the smile. “I do. I do indeed. I never—“

Ecbert strolled in and lay a hand on his shoulder. “I remember you had told me you were cloistered at Lindisfarne. The illuminated works from that place are well known throughout the land. I thought it possible that you might have been one of their artists.”

“I was, yes.”

“Well, perhaps you can get back to some of your work, then. Our local monks do not produce such works, but I’m sure they would enjoy it if you made some pages for them to see.”

Athelstan nodded, and tried to keep himself from squirming in excitement. “I would be more than happy to do so.”

“Good! I am on my way to a meeting with a few noblemen, so I’m afraid I can’t stay, but I would appreciate it if you would take the evening meal with me.”

“Of course.” Athelstan gazed up at him. “It would be my pleasure, as always.”

“Excellent.” The king patted Athelstan’s arm, and then turned to go. “I will leave you to your work for now.”

“Thank you again, Sire. I cannot express how grateful I am for this.”

“As long as it makes you happy.” He flashed one last smile before he disappeared.

With how excited he was, it took Athelstan no time at all to collect the tools and spread them out on the work table. He sat down, and quickly wove his loose hair into a braid, to keep the strands out of his face, then stared a blank sheet, trying to think of what he should work on first. Something simple, he finally decided, to get his stiff hands used to holding the instruments again. He poured out a very small amount of paint into a tray, and dipped in the brush. The way he felt at the moment was as if he had endured a great storm, and was now finally seeing light again after a long time. The way, he guessed, Noah and his family must have felt upon seeing the dove return with the olive branch.

He set the brush to paper, and began to trace the outlines. Before he had even finished half of the design, however, he stopped and stared at what he had wrought, and the reality of it set his stomach to fluttering. On the page, the bird he had painted was not the one he had intended: This one was much larger, its beak far sharper, and its wings were black, not white.

 

***

 

Ragnar stared at the items laid out on the table before him: A silver cross on a rotting, leather thong. A crumbling pile of inked paper in between two leather-and-wood covers. A pair of simple, very worn sandals. A brown, roughspun robe. To his surprise, there were also some scraps of wood and cloth with colorful designs stained upon them. One last item was even more familiar: A blue, embroidered tunic that he himself once had worn.

The articles had been found, his son had told him, by a slave who was clearing out a storage space. They, along with several other things that Borg and his men had apparently overlooked or deemed useless, had been dumped there during the occupation of Kattegat.

“I knew these were Athelstan’s when the slave showed me the pile,” Bjorn said. “I thought you would want to be the one to decide what happened to them.“

“I do. Thank you.” His fingertips traced one of the designs Athelstan had drawn: A fawn nestled into its mother’s side. His chest ached with longing. It had been weeks since Horik’s man told him of the raid on the camp he had left behind in Wessex, but he still refused to believe that his lover was dead. Though his wife had not been able to see the man with her gift, his own dreams were still so vivid and real that he could not help but think the gods had sown them within his mind. Hope, however slim, still burned, and the discovery of this stash of Athelstan’s things seemed to be a good sign.

“I don’t understand, though, why this would be among his posessions.” Bjorn nodded at the tunic. “Isn’t this yours?”

Ragnar squirmed uncomfortably. He had given his son quite the rundown on what had become of his father’s friend since he had been away, but there were some things that he didn’t touch upon. “I gave it to him shortly after I became earl,” he equivocated. “If you remember: your mother insisted that we needed new clothes befitting our status. Most of my old clothes were put away, but some I gave to people who needed them.”

“But I thought you had clothes made for Athelstan when he became your steward. Why would you give him this? And I don’t recall ever seeing him wear it, now that I think of it.”

Ragnar winced. His son had always been clever, if headstrong. It was a gift Ragnar wished he didn’t have at the moment. “He didn’t wear it. It wasn’t meant for him to wear.”

Bjorn’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“Well . . . “ Ragnar sighed as he realized there was no getting around this any more. The boy was now grown, and after several years of being apart from his father, it was time he got to know the man he had left behind—including the parts Ragnar had not discussed when he was younger, and more invested in the ideals of manhood. After a glance around to be certain they were alone in the space, he finally began. “Do you remember that there were some nights that I did not sleep in the bed with your mother?”

“Of course. You usually slept somewhere else when you’d been fighting.”

Ragnar shook his head. “Not those times. There were other times. When we weren’t fighting. Times when she . . . allowed me to be elsewhere.”

“I don’t . . . Wait.” Bjorn’s cheeks began to pink. “But I thought Gyda had made that up,” he murmured.

Ragnar cocked his head. “Gyda? What did she say?”

“She told me that one night she couldn’t sleep, so she got up to go see if there was something to eat. She said she overheard you and mother talking about Athelstan. She said mother asked you if . . . if you loved him.”

Ragnar felt a pang through his chest; he remembered the conversation. It happened not long after he and Athelstan had begun their initial experimentation. He told his wife what they had been doing, to confirm that she was accepting of it. She had been, but she did have that one question. At the time, he had hesitated to respond, being afraid of saying the words aloud. “Gyda wasn’t lying, Bjorn. And my answer to your mother’s question was, ‘yes.’ I did love him. I _do_ love him. I know that I am not supposed to feel this way about him—about any man—but I cannot help it. It is not something I am particuarly proud of, and this is not something about me I tell anyone who does not need to know, but it is the truth. I am sorry if this makes you think less of me, but I will not be dishonest with you—even if it doesn’t matter anymore, since Athelstan may be gone, now.”

Bjorn sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. He closed his eyes and went quiet for some time. And then, to Ragnar’s great surprise, a single tear trickled down his son’s cheek.

“Bjorn? Please tell me you’re not upset with me.”

Bjorn’s eyes flipped open and he rubbed at his face. “No. No, I am not. I actually can’t say that I’m even surprised. I had always wondered why you had taken such an interest in him, and now that I know, it almost makes sense, even if it is strange. I will have to think on it some, I am sure, but no, I am not upset by this. It’s just . . .”

“Just what?”

Bjorn shrugged tiredly. “Does it ever stop hurting?”

Ragnar frowned. “Does what stop hurting?”

“Losing someone. Even knowing that you may see them again after death.” Bjorn sniffled. “Gyda. Athelstan. My friend Olrik. I always thought I would have more time with them in this life, and now I know I will not, and I cannot stop the hurting of that. You once told me that you had lost many friends in your life. How is it that you are not always mired in the grief of it?”

“Oh.” Now it was Ragnar’s turn to well up. Across his mind flashed all the people he had loved and lost. Some were just faces; childhood chums or barely remembered companions in the shield wall. Others still occupied parts of himself that would never let them truly die. He took up the tunic in his hands. “Perhaps I can answer that by answering your original question: I gave this to Athelstan out of my love for him—so that he could have something of me when we were apart. Your mother and I did the same when I was away on raids, knowing that it was possible we might never see each other again. I also kept something of your sister’s—a hair comb—to remember her by. I still keep it in a chest next to my bed. These things may not give us the warmth that their owners did, but they are precious still, because they help keep the people we love alive inside us, even when the joy of being near them is in the past.”

A wistful look crossed Bjorn’s face, then he sprouted a sudden smile. “His arm ring!”

“Arm ring?”

Bjorn’s eyes glittered. “I still have it. Olrik’s.”

Ragnar had to smile. “You do. I remember him giving it to you before he died. Was it not intended for his family, though?”   

Bjorn shook his head. “He has no family. His mother died many years ago trying to birth his younger sister. His father died late last year of a bear attack. I am, I suppose, the closest person he had to family.”

“Then you surely should keep the arm ring, and hold it in memory of him. One day, when you meet again in Valhalla, he will want to know what has become of it, and you should be able to tell him.”

“I will.” Bjorn smiled again. “In fact, I should go now, and make sure that it is kept in a safe place. While I did not have the same kind of feelings for him that you have for Athelstan, he was nonetheless dear to my heart. I must honor that by keeping secure his gift to me.” He pushed his chair back. “Thank you, father. For this advice, and also for trusting me enough to tell me the truth about Athelstan. I am sure I will have other questions about that eventually, but for now, please know that I do not think less of you for it. Athelstan was a beautiful man. I might not understand exactly how you felt for him, but I understand why.”

Ragnar clapped his son’s arm affectionately. “Thank you, Bjorn, for being wise and thoughtful enough not to judge your father harshly for not acting as a man is supposed to act.”

Bjorn flashed a sly grin. “With the mother I have, how could I do otherwise?”

Ragnar spat a relieved laugh. “How indeed.”

Bjorn rose and turned to go, but before he’d taken more than a couple of steps, he glanced back. “Wait. I’m curious about one last thing.”

“Hm?”

“You say you gave the tunic to Athelstan, so he could remember you.”

Ragnar nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Did he give you anything in return? Anything to remember him?”

Ragnar reached down to the table, and picked up a slim piece of wood, onto which a design had been drawn with charcoal. “When Athelstan was a priest at his temple, he made images for his holy books. Not long after he came to live with us, I asked him to make one for me. This is what he did.”

He handed the item to his son.

As Bjorn took the wood and looked at the design, Ragnar traced the echo of it on the side of his head. “This raven will be with me always, and so, too, will the man who made him.”  


	25. A Friend in Need

Ragnar knew that Athelstan was likely dead, yet the dreams kept getting clearer.

As the promise of spring crept into the air, Ragnar’s blood had begun to stir. A long, lean winter of waiting and wondering had made his limbs ache for freedom. He threw himself into fatherhood to take away the bite—bonding again with Bjorn and spending every moment he could with baby Sigurd—but his nerves could not be calmed merely by their love. In his waking hours, his thoughts were consumed with his plans to exact penance from Jarl Borg for what he had done, but once his eyes were closed, all was painted with another face: one with pale skin, an innocent smile, and huge, fjord-blue eyes.

Some of the dreams were pleasant: snippets of memory, recalling the many joyful hours spent in each other’s company. Some, however, were not. He saw blood—too much blood. He smelled fear and shame. He felt unbearable pain. He often woke in a cold sweat, frantically looking around for his sword to defeat whatever enemies were so tormenting the beloved man.

He had kept the true extent of the dreams from most everyone. He was sure that Aslaug could sense his continuing unease, even without her gift, but neither he nor she had brought up the issue in months, choosing instead to enjoy the company of their sons. Bjorn had, as promised, plenty of questions about his father’s unusual relationship, but the issue of what had become of Athelstan was never discussed.

Only Torstein, strangely enough, seemed to understand. Late one evening, shortly after Horik had told him of Athelstan’s supposed betrayal, Ragnar sought out his trusted friend, hoping that a night of conversation—and a significant amount of ale—might help ease his mind.

“Do you think Rollo will have success in luring Jarl Borg back here?” Torstein filled Ragnar’s cup as they sat down at the table in his home.

Ragnar nodded. “I am hoping so, yes.” He drank deeply of the ale, willing it to quickly go to his nerves.

Torstein looked away. “Forgive me for saying so, but I admit to some concern that Borg may yet sway Rollo to his side again.”

“I forgive you; it’s a reasonable concern,” Ragnar said. “Were it not for Rollo’s loyalty in fighting against Borg’s invasion of Kattegat, and getting my family to safety, I would share it. But my brother and I have had many words since then. I believe he is a changed man. I believe he will play the part I have assigned him in bringing the traitor to justice.”

“And what of King Horik? He wants to ally with Borg for our return to Wessex. Will he support you in your actions?”

Ragnar shrugged. “I’m not sure I care.”

Torstein raised an eyebrow. “But he is king.”

“He is, yes. But I am coming to understand that he is not an honorable man. However much I may detest Jarl Borg, at least he wears his treachery openly. Horik is playing games with me, and I’m growing tired of it.” He downed his ale, hoping it would wash away the bitterness he felt.   

Torstein quickly refilled the cup. “Games? How so? I thought he was a sure ally.”

“I once thought so, too, but now I have grave doubts about that.” Ragnar sipped thoughtfully. “Many months ago, after Horik told me to leave Jarl Borg behind when we went to Wessex, I grew suspicious of his motives. Knowing that they shared some interests, I asked Floki to gain his confidence and report back to me if Horik said or did anything that might indicate that he is not truly a friend.”

“Well, that explains a lot.” Torstein smirked. “I had been wondering why Floki was behaving so strangely of late. He’s always been an odd fish, but when we were in Wessex, I wondered if perhaps he had finally partaken of too many mushrooms, and had permanently twisted his brain.”

“Well, that’s still possible. I don’t understand that man myself sometimes.” Ragnar grinned. “But yes: much of what he has done lately has been a matter of gaining Horik’s trust. I am sorry I did not tell you sooner; I wanted to keep the plan between only Floki and myself until I knew more.”

“I understand. And do you now? Know more?”

“Yes. Although it’s not necessarily because of anything Floki has observed. It is because of something Horik said at the feast last night—about Athelstan.”

“He implied that Athelstan had betrayed you.”

Ragnar smiled thinly. “I think we both know exactly why that was a shameless lie.”

Torstein chuckled. “Indeed.” He drained his own cup, and set to refilling it.

“It is funny in a way, though.” Ragnar scratched his chin. “The forces that require me to be so circumspect about Athelstan are also what allow Horik to so easily say he had been disloyal. In his mind, a Christian slave—even one that had been freed, as Athelstan was—would quickly turn back to his people if given the slightest chance, and conspire to take revenge on those who had enslaved him. Without knowing of the bond we share, it might be easy to assume Athelstan would betray me thus. And while I admit to some small doubt, my heart still tells me that Athelstan would not do so. The man is one of the most honest and gentle I have ever known. I do not believe he has the guile to have lied to me about why he wanted to stay behind.”

“I agree,” Torstein said. “You know I was initially concerned about him wanting to leave you if he were to return to England,  but I have had some time to think on it now, after all that you have told me, and after watching him fight by your side. I think he only wants to be of service to you in whatever way he can. I cannot therefore imagine him betraying you so deeply.”

Ragnar had wanted to believe that himself, but hearing someone else say it was a great comfort anyway. “Thank you for saying so, and for confirming my feelings on the matter. That is chief among the reasons why I believe Horik is lying to me. There is also the matter of my negotiation with the Saxon king. Ecbert is a shrewd man. He sees the benefits of a potential alliance. He would not have simply attacked Horik’s camp unprovoked.”

“You trust him that much after one conversation?” Torstein looked skeptical.

“I cannot explain why any clearer, but I do. However, my trust in him isn’t actually what anchors my view about Horik’s dissembling. That comes back again to Athelstan.”

“In what way?”

“In Horik’s blind hatred of Christians, he has never bothered to learn anything about them and their customs. He does not know what I know—what Athelstan has told me. Even if I am entirely wrong about Ecbert’s desire to work with us, and Athelstan’s loyalty, I know it would be nearly impossible for him to simply run back to his people and expect them to act on his direction against us.” Ragnar’s eyes narrowed. “He once told me of something they call ‘apostasy’—a Christian denying or abandoning his faith. Christians, especially priests, are usually expected to defend their faith, even unto death if that is their only choice. One who did not sacrifice himself rather than act in service to another god would be considered a traitor of the highest measure.”

“So Athelstan . . .”

“. . . could not have simply come to them, dressed as a Northman and with the blood of Christians on his hands, and receive a joyful welcome. Chances are strong that they would sooner execute him on sight than believe him even to be a useful source of information on their enemies.”

Torstein sat back in his chair and sighed. “So what do you make of the attack on the camp, then? How would that have happened?”

Ragnar shrugged. “It might be that Horik did something to provoke Ecbert. He never wanted to negotiate—honestly, I think he was even lying about wanting Athelstan to stay and act as his translator. He might have tried an attack with the smaller force, and earned himself a thorough beating in the process. But I also don’t think it unlikely that he’s simply lying about being attacked at all, or that perhaps he even staged something himself, to root out anyone who might be disloyal to him.”

“That would . . . include Athelstan, though.” Torstein’s tone was delicate.

Ragnar’s chest tightened. “Yes.”

“Then he is likely dead. If not by the hand of his people, for betraying his god, then by Horik’s hand.”

Ragnar blinked at the sting in his eyes, and tried to steady himself by finishing his second cup of ale. While the buzz was physically pleasant, it did little to soothe the ache. “You are probably right.”

“I’m sorry, Ragnar.” Torstein reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, which actually did provide some comfort that the ale thus far had not.

“I’m not convinced that he is dead, though.” Ragnar smiled sadly. “I know that is most likely wishful thinking, but I can’t help it. For one, I think if he truly had betrayed Horik, and had paid for that with his life, Horik would have been all too proud to tell me for certain about this. He would have bragged about killing the traitor in his midst. That he did not—that instead he claims no knowledge of Athelstan’s fate—says much.”

“Perhaps.” Torstein frowned. “If he did not return, though, he would still be back in Wessex. And as you say, it would be unlikely for him to find open arms there.”

Ragnar nodded. “It is unlikely, yes. But Athelstan is cleverer than many give him credit for. He managed to keep me from killing him when I first found him hiding at his temple, and I have been grateful for that ever since. I seriously doubt he would find ready acceptance again, but he might somehow have been able to talk his way out of immediate execution, at least. Perhaps he has only been imprisoned as yet. And in any case, there are the dreams.”

“Dreams?”

Ragnar sighed heavily. “I see him so clearly, Torstein. I cannot even describe how much so. I have had little restful sleep since our return, and though much of that has been my anger and worry about Jarl Borg’s actions, much is also because I cannot stop the endless visions disturbing my nights. I have never before had such persistent, intense dreams about any other person—even Lagertha, about whom I still dreamed many years after she left.” He sat up, and leaned forward on his elbows. “I have told Aslaug of them, as she has a gift of prophecy, and while she cannot see anything clearly, she at least feels that they are meaningful. It may be only that the gods are speaking to me of what he is experiencing after death, but I know there is at least something to this. There has to be.”

Torstein scanned his face, then swallowed more ale. “I want to believe you,” he finally said. “But surely you must admit that perhaps you only dream of him because you mourn him so deeply.”

Ragnar closed his eyes. Even without being asleep, the images sprang instantly to mind. This one was a fond memory: He and Athelstan lying entwined under a tree in the hills, tenderly caressing as they recovered from an impassioned lovemaking session. Nearby, a stream burbled merrily, and a hunting hawk cried out far overhead, wheeling through an impossibly blue sky.

“What are you thinking?” Athelstan had asked, his slender, deft fingers twirling circles in the wiry hair on Ragnar’s belly.

“Only that your skin is as soft as that of a newborn babe,” Ragnar had replied. “And that I wish that I could kiss you every time I see you.”

“I wish that, too, and I am sorry that you cannot,” Athelstan had replied. “But perhaps we can make up for some of those lost kisses now.” He hovered over Ragnar, a bright smile painting his face, and descended . . .  

“Ragnar?” Torstein shook his arm.

He blinked against the flickering firelight as Torstein’s face came back into focus. He noted that his cheeks were wet, and that his body trembled. So lost had he been in the memory that he hadn’t realized he had broken down in the middle of it. He hastily brushed at his sticky eyes. “I’m fine,” he insisted.

“No. You’re not.” Torstein got up, and moved to sit on the bench next to him. He threw an arm around Ragnar’s shoulders. Ragnar resisted at first, trying to retain his dignity, but then gave up the pretense. Few men would he have trusted to see him in such a state, but this was definitely one. He allowed himself to sink into the strong embrace, resting his cheek against the soft fabric of Torstein’s tunic, and the tears came back in a flood.

“I miss him,” Ragnar rasped.

“I know.” Torstein stroked bowstring-roughened fingers across Ragnar’s brow. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could bring him back to you. I wish I could change all that’s happened.”

“Thank you. Just being able to talk about it is helping.” Ragnar noted the steady heartbeat under his ear, and found it strangely calming. “I love my wife and my sons, but I must be strong for them. I cannot show them how destroyed I am by this.”

“Well, you needn’t worry about my opinion of you. I know what a strong man you are. Very little could make me change my mind.” Torstein grinned. “And if ever I did change it, I’m sure you would soon find a way to make me change it back.”

Ragnar returned the grin. “I would, yes.”

“I only wish there were some better way I could ease your pain. If only I . . .” A strange look crossed his face, and he stared at Ragnar for a moment.

“What?”

“I was thinking that perhaps there is another way I could comfort you.”

“Another way?” Suddenly, Ragnar realized what Torstein was thinking. “Oh!”

Torstein shrugged. “If you would like it, I would be happy to. Not . . . well, not _everything_ you’re used to with Athelstan, I’m guessing, but something, perhaps.”

Ragnar went quiet for a moment while he considered. It was true that Torstein’s warm and strong embrace was comforting, and in a different way than that which he got from his sweet, soft wife. Yet much as he loved the man, and deeply appreciated the affection and understanding, Torstein was not what he needed. Not in that way, at least. He sat up, and rubbed the last of the wetness from his eyes. “Thank you. In another circumstance, I might have been interested. But I am afraid it wouldn’t help me now. It is not a man’s body for which I ache, but a specific man. I’m afraid you can’t give me what I truly need.”

Torstein nodded. “I understand. I hope you’re not offended by the offer.”

Ragnar grinned big, and landed a playful punch on Torstein’s arm. “Of course not. I hope you’re not offended by my declining it.”

“No. Though my pride might be a little wounded. I do fancy myself quite the stallion after all.”

Ragnar threw his head back and laughed, delighting in feeling relieved enough to do so. “A stallion you still are, my friend.” He waggled his eyebrows. “And a fine one at that. As I say, in another circumstance . . .” He winked.

Torstein puffed out his chest. “Glad to know I’m still attractive!” He nudged Ragnar’s knee with his. “Are you at least feeling a little better, though?”

Ragnar nodded. “I am. I cannot express how grateful I am just to be understood and not judged. There is so much weighing on my mind right now that at times I’m not sure I can manage it all. Knowing you have my back on this—and everything else—means all the earth and sky to me.”

“I will _always_ have your back. I guarantee you will never have cause to doubt that.” He set a clear, unflinching gaze on Ragnar. “And if Athelstan is alive, be assured that I will do all I can—I will give my life, if I need to—to help you bring him safely back home.”  


	26. Scars

The brushes and paints were the finest with which Athelstan had ever worked. The color simply flowed onto the page, as if it had been Divinely ordained to do so. Yet even with such quality tools, he still made mistakes, especially with weather like today's, when the damp winds blew through the cracks in the walls and windows, and made the damaged nerves and tendons in his hands swell and ache. After yet another smudge, he rested the brush, its tip dripping a vulgar scarlet, and began massaging the cramp away as best he could. Months of healing and prayer had been necessary for him to properly grip a brush once again, and he feared he would never be as steady as once he was. His touch was also not as fine, but that was the result of something else: calluses built from training with the shield and axe. He wondered, for a fleeting moment, whether he would ever miss that sort of work as much as he had the peaceful work before him now. He wondered whether he now bore wounds that would hinder him from battle as the ugly, pink divots in his hands hindered him from his illuminations. His mind and body were a tangled web of scars, he had come to realize, but some were so much deeper than others—deep enough that perhaps they would never heal.  

The rope had been around his neck for only a matter of days—a week, at the most—before Ragnar had cut it off him. He remained bound in technicality for a long time, but the sores and chafing the rough fibers had left on his skin disappeared quickly once the rope was gone. Eventually, so did most of the other marks, both visible and non, of his capture and enslavement. Those wounds, initially sharp and searing, had faded, replaced as they were by the brighter lights of so many more shared joys and sorrows in his new life. The early horror of seeing his brothers dead at the axe or on the gibbet seemed now to be quaint echoes of the far-deeper grief he felt at losing Thyri and Gyda to the deadly fever that had swept through Kattegat. The joy of singing praises to God in the staid confines of the monastery seemed now mere childish prattle compared to the cacophonous miracles of birth, as each of Ragnar's new sons were brought forth. He had spent most of his young life in a house of service to God, yet he had never felt quite as homesick for it as he felt now for the rough-hewn walls of his Northern home. He missed teaching Ubbe to count. He missed singing Hvitserk to sleep. He missed the feasts, the mirth, and the abandon with which the people who had stolen him from his ancestral home enjoyed their lives. As comparatively peaceful as things were here, people seemed afraid to smile, as if the God who encouraged His people to make a joyful noise had been entirely replaced by the dour proclamations of St. Paul.  

He missed these things even though he knew he had never been truly accepted by many of the Northerners. Lagertha and Bjorn had come to love him, and he missed them dearly. Aslaug mostly just tolerated him, but she never held any ill will toward him, and was grateful when he stood in for ailing or absent Siggy on occasional handmaid duties. Torstein always seemed to like him—he remembered a particularly raucous night when they'd lost track of how much ale they'd downed and ended up declaring their love for a stunningly handsome duck. Floki, however, charming and friendly as he was on the surface, seemed to grow more and more suspicious of him the closer Ragnar kept Athelstan in his company. Athelstan wondered at times whether losing Leif to the sacrifice that should have been his had somehow permanently turned Floki against him. Much as the Northerners saw these sacrifices as an honor, and believed they would all meet again someday, the pain of losing someone beloved in this life still surely had its stings. King Horik and his entourage as well always seemed to regard him as little more than a common slave, no matter how many times Ragnar reminded them otherwise.

Technically, Athelstan had been a slave, of course, but he'd never really felt like one. Early on, he felt more like a beloved pet, treated similarly to the tiny young goats Ragnar liked to cuddle, but it wasn't long before Ragnar had given him the freedom of his mind, if not legal freedom, and for the most part, that was enough. Not that Athelstan was unhappy to serve in any case. God had said slaves were to obey their masters; such a god could not be opposed to ownership of people in the first place, and as he had been given to the church as a child, a life in service was in his blood. Still, his full freedom was sweet, however brief the taste of it had been on his tongue. No sooner had he been allowed to stay in his homeland, to drink in the green and misty surroundings that stirred something infantile inside him, than that freedom was stolen from him; bled from his body through the wounds that marked him as a traitor, an apostate, one step away from Lucifer himself.

Ecbert freed him that day, or so he thought, yet now Athelstan knew better. He had not been truly liberated, merely transferred from one owner to another, to be kept in a gilded cage accompanied by treasures of antiquity, rather than in his small alcove room, accompanied at times by Ragnar's strong body. And though the things in his new enclosure were grand and wondrous, they were also dust: cold relics of a people and culture long dead. As much as his mind loved what surrounded him now, his body ached for something more alive—something with hot breath on the back of his neck, and a warm hand in places he had never before known could feel like that.

Ecbert liked to touch him, he had noticed. The touches had not yet been more than seemly—a gentle hand as he helped the healers bathe Athelstan's battered body once he was down from the cross was the furthest it had gone—but he sensed that the king wanted more from him. He also sensed that the king might someday take it, whether Athelstan wanted that or not. The Northmen were capable of such violations, of course—indeed, many seemed to think it their right to despoil any women captured in a raid, much to his disgust--but Ragnar himself, and those he kept closest? No. Ragnar had never been shy about asserting his desires, even when Athelstan first expressed shock that such things were possible, but he had never demanded them. He could have, Athelstan knew. Until he became a legally free man, he could have refused nothing of his master. Yet Ragnar never seemed to take that right—or even want to. Athelstan knew that his wishes would be respected. It had, after all, taken nearly a year for him to decide to try what Ragnar was asking for, and in all that time Ragnar had never pushed the issue. Oh, he had begged. He had pouted like a child. He had talked so thoroughly about how Athelstan would enjoy it that at times he began to sound like the exotic echo bird Athelstan had seen at Charlemagne's court. But he had never threatened nor made Athelstan believe that declining that offer would result in punishment or even anger. Athelstan wondered sometimes whether he eventually said yes only because in his heart, he was trying to please his master, rather than do something he himself wanted to do. Yet it never truly felt that way, he recalled. Even though the guilt over the sins he had committed sometimes dampened the headiness of the moments after, Ragnar's actions never bothered him. Ragnar took his pleasure _with_ Athelstan, not from him, and somehow that made all the difference.

Ecbert, on the other hand. . . . Sometimes Athelstan considered it. He missed Ragnar's touch more every day that they were parted, enough now that he wondered whether Ecbert, too, could—would—do the same. For a time, he even believed it might happen, and was prepared to accede to any requests if they came. Eventually, however, it became clear that Ecbert was not an asking man; he was a taking man. That thought soured him on any idea that being touched by the king would at all give him pleasure the way being touched by Ragnar had. As they drew closer, his throat would close every time, and he dreaded the approach of the inevitable day when his acquiescence to the king's fancy would be demanded.

Until then, however, he at least had his dreams. As he flexed his hand, the scarred skin tightening, he was reminded somewhat of the tightening of skin in other places, and other ways. His body stirred and he closed his eyes, his mind drifting, as it so often did these days, back across the water to that rustic bed in the alcove, and Ragnar's war-toughened hands traveling his sweat-slick body. This vision, however, was suddenly different. As his spirit skimmed the waves, it was met by a longship, and above its prow, screeching noisily, was a glossy, black raven, much the same as the one that had come to his broken window the week before. That first visit was a fluke, he had told himself, but now, the vision in his mind was as clear as a cold, mountain stream, so real he could smell the salty crispness of the air and hear the sharp cracks of the sails as they filled with wind. At once, all the pain and stiffness drained from his scarred body and he felt a spark of light inside, growing brighter by the moment, filling him with such gladness as he hadn't felt since the joy of the Holy Spirit had left him so long ago. He sucked in a breath and his eyes flicked open.

"He is coming for me," Athelstan whispered so quietly even the mice could not hear. "He is coming to take me home."


	27. The Lord and the Ring

“Athelstan!” The voice from his doorway interrupted his fervent prayer.

“Lord Aethelwulf,” he said, rising. “How may I help you?”

A half-smile played at the corners of the man’s mouth. “It appears our information was correct: The company of Northmen you were with have indeed landed here and set up camp. They sent a messenger to inform us of their arrival, and to request a meeting for negotiation.”

Athelstan frowned. “A messenger? One speaking our tongue?”

“With some difficulty, but yes. A tall fellow, very blond of hair and beard. He carried a bow and—“

“Torstein!” Athelstan interrupted. He couldn’t help the grin that erupted on his face, as he remembered teaching his friend some of the language. He had been an eager student, but always kept getting his pronouns confused.

Aethelwulf nodded. “Yes, I think that’s what he said his name was. He said that there were three companies here: your friend Ragnar, plus the king and another earl.”

A prickly sweat broke out all over his body, and his knees weakened. He sat down hard on the bed, realizing that Ragnar was not only alive, but had returned, just as his visions had promised.

Aethelwulf came over in front of him and smiled down. “It might interest you to know that Torstein asked after you.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him that you were alive, and were being well treated here by my father. He said Ragnar would be glad to hear that.”

Athelstan fidgeted. “What happens now?”

“He has asked that a small company return to the camp with him, to discuss the next steps in more detail than his command of the language would allow.”

Athelstan sprang to his feet. “I should go with you. I can help.”

Aethelwulf gently pushed down on his shoulder. “No. My father said you are to remain here. He doesn’t trust that the Northmen won’t harm you.”

“They won’t.” Athelstan shook his head. “Not if Ragnar and Torstein are there. They are—were—my closest friends among the Northmen. They will make sure I am kept safe.”

“I am sorry. My father has ordered you to stay. But if you like, I can bring a message from you to the camp. It may help assure them that our intentions are honorable.” 

“Yes, of course. I . . .” His mind raced. After so long, there were a thousand things he wanted to say to Ragnar, but none of them were appropriate for the king’s son to pass on. Reflexively, his hand went to his wrist. The ring had been there only a matter of days before his capture, yet he could still feel its weight. Turning to the table at his bedside, he opened the box there and took out the prize. “I have no specific message,” he finally said, “but please give this to Ragnar. He will know it is mine, and will understand.”

 

***

 

Ragnar huddled close to the fire, a blanket draped around his shoulders to conceal the action of his hands. Since Aethelwulf had delivered the arm ring to him, he had not let it leave his grasp, and now, after the recklessness of Horik’s attack on the envoy, it was very nearly his only comfort.

It was clear that Aethelwulf had understood Athelstan’s importance. The exact nature of that importance was likely still unknown, but undoubtedly, if the king’s son knew that Athelstan mattered, the king did as well. Now, after the unprovoked strike, he was desperately afraid that his beloved might be a target of Ecbert’s ire. However well-kept Athelstan had been in the king’s care—and Ragnar believed he was—there was no telling now what danger he could face as an effective hostage.

To come so close to finally being reunited and then have it all go sideways filled him with gnawing frustration. He even briefly entertained the idea of leaving the camp under cover of night, and going to retrieve Athelstan all on his own. However, his sense of responsibility won out over the impulse—though only barely—and he remained in place. The best he could do under the circumstances was pray, and so he did.  

“Allfather, I beg you, do not let him come to harm,” he murmured, tightly clutching the ring. As he did so, the action brought to mind something else: Athelstan clutching his silver cross as he prayed to his god many years ago. It occurred to Ragnar that being back among his people might well have pushed Athelstan back to his old faith. At minimum, he would likely have been required to seem like a Christian in order to survive. Perhaps then it was the Christian god to whom he should direct the prayer, he considered.

This prayer he left silent out of necessity—too many ears, belonging to too many people who would not understand—but in his mind, he begged: _I am not a man of your faith, but as you have before spared the one who was devoted to you, please spare him again._

He slept fitfully that night, but one dream stood out: His black wings cut the air as he soared over hills and treetops. He cried out repeatedly in his search until eventually, a return call reached his ears: a coo, weak and pained, but distinct. On the ground below him, white feathers were stained with red.

***

 

Sleep did not come easily to Athelstan, and he found himself welcoming the gray haze of dawn, because at least he didn’t need to try anymore. He took just enough food to settle his nervous stomach, and then began to pace the halls while the battle raged in the fields beyond.

The villa was strangely quiet with most of the men gone. Only the women, children, elderly and infirm were left behind to wonder and wait for news. And, of course, he and the rest of the men of faith. Finally, the call came: the healers were needed. Ignoring the admonishment of the bishop to remain behind as he had been ordered, he joined the small cadre of monks with their bags full of bandages and opium and made for the battlefield.

Once he arrived, it took all of his powers of persuasion to convince the king to let him walk among the dead and dying. Even though the bodies of the slain posed him no threat, Ecbert apparently still believed that somehow, one might rise again and slay the priest he had taken for his pet.

An hour into his wanderings, he had not yet seen Ragnar among the casualties. There were some he recognized, however: a few passing acquaintances from Kattegat and, to his dismay, both of the shieldmaidens from Horik's camp who had protected him. They had died as they lived: side by side. Still, as each body he passed did not bear a face of those he loved the most, his heart became hopeful.

But then, he saw a face he did know.

 

 _Betrayed them?_ Athelstan stalked down the hall in confusion, Rollo’s words echoing in his mind. _How could Horik claim such a thing?_ Much of his memory of the attack on his hunting party and his subsequent capture had succumbed to pain and opium, but his memory of the days before that was still clear. Aside from his refusal to join with Horik’s men in tormenting their captives, he had done nothing whatsoever that could have been read as betrayal. After he had recovered, his subsequent conversations with Ecbert had revealed something he found slightly strange: whilst Athelstan was nearly dying upon the cross, the remainder of the Northmen had broken camp and sailed away. Ecbert said he assumed they had gone back to join the others, and Athelstan agreed that that was most likely. He figured, therefore, that the attack they had encountered was simply a few scouts looking to pick off stragglers, rather than a concerted effort on the entire camp.  

Now, however, he wondered whether that was the case, or whether some of Horik’s men—perhaps at the direction of the man himself—had staged the assault themselves, perhaps to eliminate anyone whom Horik had deemed a dissenter. Whether they were targeting him specifically he did not know, though given Horik’s feelings about Christians, it didn’t seem unlikely. Horik being the true traitor also explained why Aethelwulf’s party had been hit. Such a thing was most definitely not Ragnar’s style, but Horik’s? That was another story.

“You wished to see me, Sire?” Athelstan stepped hesitantly into the king’s chamber.

Ecbert lounged upon a couch, his hair damp and a thick robe draped loosely around him. He had invited Athelstan to his bath house once; he declined. “I did. Please, come have a seat.” He gestured tiredly to a chair nearby.

Athelstan sat gingerly upon the edge of the chair.

“Now that the Northmen have been defeated, I have decided I wish to negotiate with them. Having Ragnar’s brother in our care gives us a very good position. They are unlikely to attempt another surprise raid.”

“Sire, I don’t think the attack on your son’s party was—“

The king waved a hand. “I know. It’s not Ragnar’s nature. That’s beside the point now, however. I asked you here because I have decided to grant your request. My son tells me that Ragnar was overjoyed to receive that bauble you sent along with him; he believes you will be safe if we send you as an envoy. I still have my doubts, but no-one else is willing to volunteer anyway. Go to the stables; a mount will be provided for you.”

Athelstan tried very hard not to let the glee show on his face.   

 

***

 

A mule, of all things. The sheer absurdity of it almost made Ragnar laugh. When he saw how Athelstan was attired, however, the laugh died in his throat. For a fleeting second, he wondered if Horik had been right—if the man he so loved really had betrayed them.

The doubt was quickly extinguished, thanks in great part to his son. If only, he lamented, it were so easy for him to speak openly of his own love for the man who had minded his children as if they were his own.

Now, as he stood in the glade, watching Athelstan lead his gentle mount away, every feeling he had been swallowing down for the past several months bubbled to the surface. His heart begged him to follow—to tumble Athelstan to the ground and make furious love to him right there among the trees, while the mule surely wondered why humans were such strange creatures. His desire to have more lovemaking sessions in the future than only one which would likely be their last kept his feet where they were. Still, he took a few moments to himself, letting a few tears fall and silently thanking whatever gods might be listening for at least letting him see and touch Athelstan again.

Worry still gnawed at him: However gently Ecbert had treated Athelstan, the scars on his hand and his talk of having despaired spoke of some other trauma. Aslaug’s mention of a vision of pain and his own dreams of such began to make more sense, now. He wanted to know more—he wanted to be told who had done this, so that he might return the pain to them ninefold—but it was not the time to ask, not when so much now rested on the weary, black-clad shoulders that had just disappeared around the bend. Heaving a great sigh, he turned and made his way back to the camp.

In the past two days, wearing the arm ring had been a comfort: a physical reminder that Athelstan was still alive and obviously still cared for him. Now, he sort of missed the weight of it, but knowing that it was back with its rightful owner definitely made up for the loss. For now, the metal would be his proxy, and embrace Athelstan’s arm until he himself could once again embrace the man entire.


	28. Home is not a Place

_“I want you to come back.”_ The words echoed in his mind all through the return journey to Ecbert’s compound. So, too, did the feeling of Ragnar clutching his thigh, on his face a look of humble desperation that Athelstan had seen only rarely in the several years he had known the man.

Many long months he had waited, trying to fit in and live a useful, fulfilling life among his fellow Saxons while still dreaming of the wind-scoured hills of Kattegat. That place now beckoned to him, and yet now that it had come to it, he had a moment of uncertainty.

His torn faith was part of the feeling, he acknowledged. Never had he felt more at peace than when he knew a personal connection to God, and that connection had nearly been severed while living in a land that was only marginally aware of Christianity. As he had told Ragnar, he wasn’t wholly Christian, but he wasn’t wholly invested in the Aesir, either. Being Christian at all while living in Kattegat would be risky. Still, he considered, it would be less risky than trying to keep the pagan part of his faith while living here. At least the Northmen, save a few, only reviled him, at worst. Here, the pressure to be entirely, obviously, piously Christian was smothering. Whatever his relationship with God, his relationships with some of the Lord’s earthly representatives were poisoned with violent hatred. Of those he knew here, only Ecbert, and perhaps the terrifying, if beautiful, Princess Kwenthrith, had any love at all for his pagan side. Even Floki’s ongoing vicious needling was nothing compared to the constant risk of being executed for apostasy, Ecbert’s protection of him notwithstanding.

Ecbert himself was also part of the hesitation, however. The king was somewhat possessive and controlling of him, that much was true, but he had also tapped into a part of Athelstan that had long been dormant while he was living with people more earthy and unrefined. He wondered at times whether Ecbert’s support of his work, or even his act of stopping the crucifixion, was driven only by a desire to use his pet pagan to realize his dreams of ruling a larger chunk of England. After all, Ragnar had also initially used his knowledge primarily to better plan his raids. Still, as with Ragnar, there was also genuine affection in Ecbert’s eyes and touch much of the time, and a genuine appreciation of the artistic work his pet was doing. In Athelstan, the king had found a kindred spirit—an island of understanding among those who could not see beyond the Scriptures to the world around them. Athelstan disliked the idea of leaving this man, who had on balance been kind and generous to him, to sit in his vault of pagan treasures all alone. It seemed almost cruel to abandon him. Ragnar, he knew, loved and cherished him at least as much, and surely far more, but he had other purposes and other joys. Should Athelstan leave his life, he would likely be bereft, but he would recover eventually. Ecbert he wasn’t so certain about. He loved his son, no doubt, and surely looked forward to the grandchildren that would soon be coming, but he had no true companions; none with whom he could be fully honest. Athelstan was humble enough not to overestimate his position in the man’s life, but he acknowledged that it was likely he was the only person the king could actually call a friend. Although Athelstan had to admit that he loved Ragnar more, he still felt a duty to this man, too.

Ecbert had been right: He and Ragnar making peace did help Athelstan come to some level of peace in himself, but it also made things harder. He could not be in two places at once. He had to choose, and he had to do it soon, before the ships sailed at dawn.

He rode into the courtyard and dismounted, letting the grooms take his horse. As he turned to leave, he was nearly bowled over by a couple of children—sons of the farrier—who were chasing each other around.

The eldest of the two, a skinny blond boy of perhaps six years, got to his feet and stared up. “Father!” he cried. “Please forgive me. Have I hurt you?” He looked petrified, which was understandable. Few of the haughty clergy around here would forgive such a slight.

Athelstan smiled and patted the boy’s head. “Not at all. Go on.” He gestured for the boys to resume their play, and so they did. As he watched them race away, a pang clutched at his heart. He remembered seeing Bjorn at the camp: a grown, handsome man where once there had been only a cantankerous boy. He had missed several years of the youth of a child he once loved, and now he was missing even more. It had been more than a year since last he saw Ubbe and Hvitserk. Aslaug was nearly ready to give birth when they left; he had not met Ragnar’s new son. And it had been so long since Ragnar had returned home that it was entirely possible she was with child yet again. These were not his children, not in so many words, yet he loved them as much as he imagined he could love his own, should that ever come to pass.

No; it was not only his love for the boys’ father that made him long for Kattegat. It was the love for the boys themselves, and many others. He had been delighted to see at the camp not only Bjorn, but Lagertha, whose friendship he deeply missed. She was an earl in her own right, now, and commanded her own company. He itched with the need to talk to her about how all that had come to pass in the years since she had divorced Ragnar. He longed to see Ragnar’s new wife, too. Although he had never been as close to Aslaug as he had been to Lagertha, they had nonetheless developed an affection over the years. He was grateful that she entrusted to him the care of not only her husband, but her children. And there were many others still: Torstein, Siggy, Helga; even Floki, as much as his jibes did hurt at times.

Here, there was but one person he truly cared for. Across the sea, there was very nearly an entire town.

 

The guards at the gate didn’t even seem to notice him leaving. His morning walks through the surrounding woods were now a common enough thing that they merely nodded as he strode away into the misty dawn. They did not look closely; had they done so, they would have seen that the man of the cloth no longer wore all the adornments of his faith.

 

***

 

The sun was only barely above the sea when they finished breaking camp. It had been difficult work, what with having to tend to Rollo and work around others’ less-severe injuries, but it went swiftly nonetheless—too swiftly, Ragnar thought. Many of the boats had already launched. Only his and one other remained.  

Lagertha noticed the look on his face. “I am sorry, Ragnar. I, too believed he would come back, but it seems he has chosen to stay here.”

Ragnar tried to ignore the tight pain in his chest, blowing it off as battle bruises and sore muscles. “I have not given up hope, yet. We still have a while before we absolutely must leave. He may yet come in that time.”

Lagertha patted his arm. “Perhaps you are right. Still, we must be honest with ourselves: He was taken from here against his will. Being back on his own soil may have made him remember that, and forget all else that mattered to him since then. The king seemed to have some affection for him. Perhaps Athelstan has decided to remain for him.”

Ragnar looked away; he did not want her to see his welling eyes. “I know. Believe me: I know.”

“This is the last one,” Torstein said, hefting a small chest. “Once it and Rollo are loaded up, we’re ready when you are.”

“No! Not that one.” Ragnar took it from him and set it back down on the ground. “Not yet.”

Torstein shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m off for a piss before we go.” He wandered off into the trees.

Just as he was returning, a shout came from the western path. “Father! Come see!”

“Bjorn? What is it?” Ragnar hobbled up to where his son stood. Rounding the corner and coming up the path was a small, black-clad figure.

As he saw the nearly deserted camp, the figure broke into a run. “Wait!” he called. “Wait for me!”

Ragnar tried to ignore the pain in his injured leg, and started rushing up the path. Lagertha and Torstein hurried after him. Bjorn, unencumbered, dashed ahead, and quickly made up the remaining distance. He scooped Athelstan into his arms. “I knew you’d come back!” He laughed.

Athelstan grunted, and wriggled out of the exuberant lad’s grip. “Thank you for your faith in me,” he said, beaming. They continued down the path, Bjorn’s arm around his shoulders.

“Welcome, friend!” Torstein reached them and ruffled Athelstan’s neatly combed hair. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you, Torstein.” He nodded at Lagertha, who fell in step with her son and smiled serenely. “My lady. I am so pleased to see you with this company. It seems you have done well for yourself in the time that you have been gone.”

“There are many stories to tell about that,” she said, nodding. “But for now, I am just glad that I will finally get to see more of you again. I have missed you very deeply.”

“And I, you.” He favored her with a warm, broad smile.

As Ragnar finally reached them, the mob parted. Ragnar almost felt frozen in place as he simply stared into Athelstan’s eyes. With so much longing, so much pain, and so much uncertainty all these months, he almost couldn’t believe that Athelstan was truly there. He couldn’t believe that the man he so loved was finally coming home with him, and this time of his own will, not due to a rope around his neck. Finally, words found him. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Athelstan nodded; no more words were needed.

“Have you come to us as a priest again?” Torstein nodded at Athelstan’s garb.

Athlestan smiled sheepishly. “Not exactly, no. I just didn’t have anything else to wear. My other clothes were . . . well, I just don’t have them anymore.”

“I had wondered if that might be the case,” Ragnar said. “In the hope that you would return with us, I brought you some things.” He turned and strode toward the chest that Torstein had carried. Crouching down, he opened it and reached in. “I’m afraid many of your things back home were stolen or destroyed when Jarl Borg’s forces occupied the town. However, there were a few I recovered, and I also found a couple of other items that should fit.” He drew out a thick overtunic, a pair of breeches, worn boots, a belt and finally, at the bottom and wrapped carefully in a blanket, the blue, embroidered tunic he had given to Athelstan many years before.

Athelstan’s eyes went wide. “You found it!” He took the garment from Ragnar and held it out, his eyes traveling over its folds.

“I didn’t find it myself, but I am glad it was found all the same.”

“As am I. Thank you. If you’ll give me just a moment, I’ll be ready to go.” Gathering the clothes, he scurried off into the trees.

Torstein chuckled. “Still has the Christian modesty, I see—Ow!” He rubbed his arm where Ragnar elbowed him.

Ignoring the knowing chuckles that echoed behind him, Ragnar limped over to the grove where Athelstan had gone. As a flash of skin came into view, he called over, “Need any help? I can—“ He stopped short as he realized what he was seeing. Across Athelstan’s torso were a series of long, thin scars. They were faded, now—only a hint of pink remained on the larger ones—but it was clear how they had come to be.

Athelstan stared at him, knowing what Ragnar was looking at, but he said nothing.

Ragnar, too, remained silent. There would be time someday for Athelstan to choose to tell him all that had happened. Today, he wished only to talk of pleasant things. “Here. Let me help.” He took the tunic from Athelstan and gathered it at the neck. Athelstan raised his arms, and Ragnar drew the tunic over his head. He then helped him on with breeches, boots and the overtunic, and fastened his belt at the back.

Athelstan bent to retrieve his priest garb and folded it neatly. “I’d like to keep this, I think.”

“Of course.” Ragnar nodded in understanding. “Have you decided to keep the . . . other things about being a priest?”

Athelstan sighed and smiled. He lay a scarred hand on Ragnar’s face and tilted his head up. “No.”


	29. Shield

Lagertha had spent most of her life living up to the strength of the men around her. Life was brutal for a woman, no matter who you were, and she learned at a young age that standing up to that brutality with some of her own was the best way to survive. In time, most men came to respect her, and the ones who did not rarely lived long enough to continue their disrespect. That reputation meant some of the men respected her merely out of fear, but many others, including the man she first married and whose children she bore, respected her as an equal, not as an enemy.

Women were harder. Her fellow shieldmaidens flocked to her like starlings, eager to learn from her and to pass on her teachings to others, but they didn't often want to know the parts of her that lay behind the shield. Conversely, women who had chosen more peaceful paths sometimes found her perplexing. They had meetings of the minds on many things—the needs of raising children were universal, and the steady rhythms of weaving bound more than fibers—but she found it hard to get truly close to them. They seemed confused, unsure of whether to relate to her as a fellow woman, with open hearts and easy laughter, or as a man, with the subtle deference and undercurrent of wariness they had learned as girls. Fighting among her fellow warriors, whether male or female, she felt kinship, but day-to-day life off the battlefield was often strange and lonely.

Perhaps this was why she had come to love the priest. Athelstan, too, straddled worlds as she did. Not just in culture, trying to find his way between disparate languages and gods, but in finding a space among men and women in which he belonged. His homeland had a place for soft men like him—clad in roughspun brown, speaking their prayers in hushed tones—but there was no such thing for him here. He took to his slavery too readily; acquiesced to orders too blithely. Though he wanted and had gained his legal freedom, he had seen no loss of pride in being a thrall. He feared the potential consequences of disobeying, but beyond that, he seemed naturally to fall into a role of helper. He was, in short, much like the women who could or would not take up a shield, and instead held their ground at the hearth, the loom, and the birthing bed. Over time, as he shed his monk's robes and fell in line with the world into which he had been thrust, he seemed to discover a well of virility—indeed, Ragnar had told her that the priest had become quite a warrior while she was away—but much of his softness remained, and she found it endearing.

He had come to their camp in priestly garb, riding an ass, of all things, and endured insults that would have earned an axe to the neck from other men. Yet there was no shame in his face. There was fear, yes (and rightly so), grief and longing, and a hint of something more—something broken—but no shame. He seemed somewhat stronger, if scarred and worn, and had a streak of courage and determination with which she was unfamiliar, yet he still had a gentle heart.

Looking at him now, minding Ragnar's young sons while Aslaug attended the guests in the great hall, her heart ached, wishing he could somehow have come with her when she left Ragnar, and watched as Bjorn became a man. Bjorn had wished that, too. As often as he grieved the death of his sister and the estrangement from his father, he murmured sad words about missing the man whom he had, in the fire of his adolescence, once treated with contempt. But Athelstan's place was always by the side of Ragnar, whether he was free or no, and thus he had come to play the same role for Aslaug and her children that he had once played for Lagertha's family. Without children to mind or a home and farm to tend, he likely never could play that role for her again, and she felt that loss keenly. Still, she considered, there might be something left for her.

Ubbe pulled Hvitserk away to play with the goats, and Athelstan was suddenly alone. On their return, Ragnar had rarely left his side, hovering protectively over him and shooting threatening stares at anyone who might challenge his right to be with them. But Ragnar was now occupied himself, trying to help the healer save his brother. She looked around: Torstein was, as usual, halfway into a barrel of ale. Floki was nowhere to be seen—likely off with Helga. Her son, of course, was in a shadowy corner with his newly freed love, their heads and hands together. She felt her arm jerk up slightly, a phantom shield attached to it, and a flutter ran through her belly. Crossing the hall in great, determined strides, she was soon next to Athelstan, her body blocking the path between him and the caustic stares of Horik's men.

He favored her with a warm, welcoming smile. "My lady. Or should I call you Earl, now?" He dipped his head in deference.

She laughed lightly. "You may call me whatever you wish! You are not my subject. To you, I am your friend above all else."

"Thank you. I'm glad to hear that. It seems not everyone agrees." He glanced around the room.

"I know." Her jaw tightened. "They have created their own grief, however, in choosing against your friendship. They do not know what they have given up."

"That's very kind of you to say." He moved over on the bench on which he sat, giving her room. "Please, sit with me if you will."

"Of course." She perched on the edge, her body still tense and her senses fully aware of their surroundings. When it seemed the hostile gazes were thus deflected, she finally relaxed a little. "I did not get much of a chance to speak to you alone on the journey," she said, "but I wanted you to know I am pleased you came back. I have missed you dearly these many years, and I am happy to know that you are alive, and now but a short ride away, instead of being kept from me by forces less surmountable."

"I've missed you, too, my la—Lagertha. There will always be things I miss about England, but it never held the people I cared for most." He looked over at the children, who were now chasing each other around a nearby table. Hvitserk tripped, and cried out. Athelstan tensed, about to rise to tend to him, but Ubbe pulled the younger boy to his feet, and soon they were breathlessly tearing about the room again.

Lagertha sighed quietly. "Athelstan, I know that your place is here with Ragnar and his new family, but I hope that, as a free man, you might someday choose to visit me as well. While I have love for my new people, they are subjects—people I must lead—not familiar to me. I also miss my son every day since he has returned to Kattegat and soon I shall likely lose him forever." She nodded back over her shoulder to where he nuzzled the girl. "Your face in my hall would be a welcome comfort to me."

Athelstan brightened. "I would be delighted. I would like to see your home—to see the Earldom that you have made. You will have to tell me how you came by it, though I have no doubt you are quite the leader."

She chuckled. "It is not easy, but I manage. There are many whose trust and respect I have earned who help keep things running while I am away, but when I am there, there is much to do, and it is frequently tiring." Her eyes traveled over his face, settling on his mouth, and a mischevous idea, one she hadn't entertained in years, came to mind. "It doesn't help that I often don't sleep well, with only my cat to warm my bed," she groused.

"You have a cat?" He grinned. "I'm sure it's lovely."

"More like a soft-furred tyrant, but that is the charm of the beast. I think you'd get along well! Although you might have to compete for space."

"Space?"

"On the bed." She smiled significantly.

He cocked his head, but then his cheeks flushed and a nervous laugh escaped his throat. "Oh! I see. Well, I don't … I mean, Ragnar … That is—"

She dropped her voice to a purr. "Still sleeping only with your god?" His wide eyes grew even bigger, and he began stammering. After a moment, she took pity on him, nudging him with a shoulder. "Relax, friend. You are welcome in my bed regardless of whether all you want to do there is sleep. I would just like your company, however you wish to share it."

He let out a shaky breath. "Thank you. And you shall certainly have my company. That, I guarantee. At the least." He moved closer, his body angling into hers and their thighs touching. "It _is_ good to have you near again." Tentatively, he rested a hand on her knee.

She reached for the hand, stilling its trembling by folding it into both of her own, and they went quiet, idly watching the children as they enjoyed each other's presence. As she held his hand, she felt the scars that she had glimpsed on their journey home—the ones that made his hands stiffen and ache. An arrow wound, she had initially thought, but with its twin on the other side, that didn't seem quite right. Something told her not to ask about the details, so instead she simply stroked the raised marks, her rough fingertips gently tracing their edges. After a moment, Athelstan let out a tiny sound, a mewling like a baby just waking from a nap, and drew a shuddering breath. A well pooled in his eyes and he closed them tightly.

The designs she had had upon him suddenly paled, washed out as they were by her other instincts. She couldn't imagine what he might have been through, and wished, for the first time, to share with him what she had endured as well. But not now. For now, he needed the shieldmaiden, not the woman under the armor. The gods had made her strong thus, and so would she be for him.  

Tilting her chin up, she lightly kissed his cheek, her lips brushing away the thin, salty trail that trickled down. "I know you claim Ragnar as family, and he claims you, too," she murmured against his warm skin, "but so do I, and I will do so until the wolf has consumed all. Be still, Athelstan, and know that at least for this moment, with me, you are loved, you are safe, and you are home."   


	30. The Price of Revenge

In the days since his return to Kattegat, Athelstan had spent more time with Ragnar’s young children than he had with the man himself. This wasn’t a bad thing, necessarily, given how much he had missed the little ones. Ubbe and Hvitserk were as delightfully rambunctious as he remembered, little Sigurd was just starting to toddle around, and baby Ivar seemed entirely unaware of his condition, giggling and cooing as Athelstan sang to him. Athelstan also prayed for the infant, asking God to give him strength of will to balance out his physical challenges, but he kept those prayers largely to himself.

His old room had been turned into a storage space while he was away, so initially he found lodging with Torstein, who lived a few houses down from the Great Hall. It was comfortable enough, and he and Torstein got along famously, but it lacked privacy. The night of the fest to welcome Horik’s family, he got little sleep, what with the carnal activities taking place not far from his bed. He overheard one of the women Torstein had taken home suggesting that they invite his roommate along for the ride, and for a second, actually considered the idea. But such things would not have pleased him. He wanted only one person, and that person had had little time for him.

Ragnar didn’t seem emotionally distant—they did have a few nice moments when Ragnar provided him with a pair of axes to replace the weapon and shield he had lost in Wessex—but physically, he had been very hands off. The deep, desperately needed kisses they had shared in the woods before sailing back were the most intimacy they had had since their reunion, and as the days wore on without having any chance for more, Athelstan found himself growing an intense craving. He understood the reasons—when Ragnar wasn’t watching over his brother, he had innumerable meetings with various people, plus the responsibility of hosting the king and his family—but he ached all the same.

Thus, when Ragnar asked him to come to the earl’s quarters after their morning planning meeting, Athelstan jumped at the chance. Even though his head felt as if it had acted as Thor’s anvil, thanks to his excessive consumption of ale the night before, the thought of finally being in close contact again worked better than any herbal remedy to ease his pain.

When he arrived, Ragnar was standing in front of the fire, staring into it as if it might give him inspiration.

“Athelstan,” he said without looking back. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course. I have missed being with you.”

Ragnar finally turned. “And I have missed you.” He reached out as Athelstan approached, and took him into a warm embrace. “More than I can express.”

In Ragnar’s strong arms, Athelstan felt all the tension in his body drain away, only to be replaced a moment later by tension in a very specific location. Tilting his head up, he sought Ragnar’s mouth, while sliding a hand down his back and over the curve of his muscular arse.

Ragnar readily accepted the kiss, but he gently moved Athelstan’s hand away.

Athelstan pulled back. “Is something wrong?”

Ragnar smiled sadly. “Yes and no. Believe me, I want to make love to you, but that’s not why I asked you here for now.” He stepped back, and settled on a bench nearby.

Athelstan joined him, though worry still churned his belly.

“I wanted to explain all this before now, but I had not got a chance. Since you’ve been away, much has happened, and it’s going to start to come undone tonight.”

“I don’t understand. I thought you had executed Jarl Borg. Is something still coming of that?”

Ragnar shook his head. “He is well and truly dead and poses us no threat. But a threat still remains, and I have you, in part, to thank for helping me uncover it.”

“Me? How? I—wait.” He recalled the conversation he had had with Rollo in the healers’ room, plus Floki’s cruel insinuation a couple of nights before. Also, some people he had thought were friends—or at least friendly—seemed to be avoiding him for some unknown reason. “People have said that I betrayed you. I didn’t know how that could be.”

“Nor did I. I admit that I was worried when you decided to remain behind in Wessex, but I kept faith that you would remain loyal to me. So when Horik arrived back here, telling us that you had somehow caused Ecbert to attack his camp, I was nearly certain he was lying.”

“I assure you, I didn’t—“

“I know.” Ragnar took his hand, and traced the scar on the palm with a fingertip. “If my heart had not told me, this would have.”

Athelstan trembled at the touch. He suddenly wanted to confess everything that had happened, but then he realized he didn’t have to. The details would come someday, but the understanding was already there in Ragnar’s eyes.

“When I saw this scar as I returned your arm ring to you, I knew at that moment that everything Horik had told me, probably from the moment I met him, was a complete and utter falsehood. He used me to try to remove Jarl Borg from his path, and then used Jarl Borg to try to remove me. When that failed, he forced us into an unwinnable battle back in Wessex. He has been playing all of us like pieces on a game board.” Ragnar snorted a bitter laugh. “But what he does not know is that I have been playing him, too.”

“How so?”

“Ever since he told me to leave Jarl Borg behind—to break our agreement—I have been suspicious of his motives. So I asked Floki, who had built a rapport with him before, to act as my agent, and keep note of any signs of treachery while befriending him.”

“Floki!” Athelstan gaped. “All this time, I’ve been wondering if he was acting strangely—well, more strangely than is usual for him.”

“He has been, yes. And I know some of what he has done has been hard on you. I apologize for that. I did not know he would go so far in trying to convince Horik of his loyalty. Although,” he paused and sighed, “he is about to go even further.”

“Further?” Given how Floki had treated him already, he wondered for a moment what was about to be asked of him.

Ragnar seemed to sense his apprehension. “Don’t worry. It won’t involve you. Not directly.”

“I admit I’m relieved to hear that. What, then?”

“He is going to kill Torstein tonight. Or at least near to it.”

Athelstan felt a ripple of cold shock through his chest. “No!”

“I’m afraid so. He has assured me that the poison he will be using will only cause Torstein some stomach upset and a long, deep sleep, but he did say that there was at least some small risk that things might go poorly. We have discussed this with Torstein, and he is prepared to sacrifice himself for this cause if need be.”

Athelstan’s head recommenced its steady throb, and his meager breakfast threatened to repeat. “I couldn’t bear it, Ragnar. He has been one of my most beloved friends here.”

“I know. I wish there was another way. But Horik actually asked Floki to prove his loyalty by killing someone close to me. Torstein volunteered. He told me he wanted to spare me the grief of possibly losing anyone more dear.” He reached up to stroke Athelstan’s cheek. “Including you.”

Athelstan frowned. “But . . .”

“I told him. A long time ago—before we even sailed to Wessex. He didn’t say anything to you about it because he didn’t want to cause you any worry or embarrassment. But yes, he knows, and he supports the love we have for each other.”

Athelstan swallowed hard. Torstein apparently not only accepted him despite being a foreigner and a Christian, but despite being _ergi_.  The realization of this made the thought of him possibly dying that much more painful. His eyes stung and his mouth began to quiver.

Ragnar stilled the quivering with a gentle kiss. “I’m so sorry.”

As much as he understood Ragnar’s plan, he dearly wished there were another way around this. But Ragnar was a clever man; he would not have chosen such a path if there were other options. Finally, Athelstan sighed, resigned. “I should go to him, though. I should go to Torstein and spend as much time with him as I can just in case.” He smiled up. “Not that I don’t want to spend more time with you.”

“I understand.” Ragnar kissed him again. “If all goes as I hope, we will have many years ahead of us in which to enjoy each other’s company. I can miss you for another day.”

 

Torstein was breathing, but only barely, when they laid him on the table at Elisef’s house.

“Boil some water,” she ordered Athelstan. He immediately complied. “Add to it three of those red flowers, and a handful of round leaves—not those; the ones with the serrated edges. And a shaving of that white root on the table.” She busied herself clearing Torstein’s mouth while her assistant began disrobing him. “It looks like he vomited most of the mushrooms, but I want to be sure that any remaining poison is clear from his body.”

“Of course. Yes.” Athelstan frantically followed her orders, hoping he’d got all the ingredients right.

After a few swallows of the tincture, Torstein vomited twice more, the latter time coming up with just yellow foam. Not long after, he spontaneously cleared his bowels.

“Good!” Elisef declared.

“Good?” Athelstan stared at her, his own stomach turning somewhat as he helped attend to the mess.

“His system is as clean as we will get it.” She looked up at her assistant. “We can dress him again when he’s ready.”

When all was finally tidy again, Torstein almost looked healthy. Color had returned to his face, and his breathing was deep and even.

“Now what?” Athelstan asked after he had cleaned his own hands.

“Now, we wait.” She directed her assistant to notify Ragnar that Torstein was well, and then settled in by her own bed. She picked up a knife and an a square of frayed cloth and began to occupy herself by cutting the fabric into strips for bandages. “You may as well help,” she said, nodding to the bin of rags at her feet. “I have a feeling we’re going to need a lot of these in the next couple of days.”

 

The crowing rooster didn’t wake Athelstan so much as Torstein’s complaining about the noise.  

Scrambling to his feet, and ignoring the pain in his back from spending all night on the floor where he had, exhausted, fallen asleep, he dashed over to his friend’s side. “You’re awake!”

“It would seem so. And I suspect this isn’t Valhalla.” Torstein blinked against the dawn filtering through the cracks in the walls.

“Not unless you Northmen have been completely wrong about what it’s like,” Athelstan teased.

Torstein laughed, and then coughed. Finally, he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the table. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“He helped bring you to me,” Elisef nudged Athelstan aside with her hip. She carried a tray full of fruit and a steaming cup of something pungent. “And he’s been here all night, the eager little pup.”

Athelstan moved out of the way, letting her attend to her patient, but he stayed close.

“Well, that’s unexpected, but thank you.” Torstein smiled at him, and then began nibbling at the food as the healer fussed over him in ways only someone of her profession would understand.

Athelstan shrugged. “It’s the least I could do.”

Finally, Elisef stepped back. “You’ll live!” she declared. “I’d tell you not to tax yourself for the next day or so, but you’d ignore that anyway. All I ask is that you rid us of the foul creature who forced this.”

“Don’t worry!” he mumbled around a mouthful of berries. “I plan to.”

A wave of joy and relief washed over Athelstan, and he reached up, throwing his arms around his friend. Torstein laughed at the exuberance, but returned the embrace, and added a gentle kiss to the top of Athelstan’s head.

“I’m glad you were with me,” he said, “but you needn’t have worried. I have survived many a battle, and now I have survived this. If Valhalla wants me, the gods are obviously going to have to try much harder.”

The door swung open, and Elisef’s assistant came in, bearing a blanket in which was wrapped weapons and armor. “These are yours.” She nodded at Torstein, depositing them on the floor nearby. She turned to Athelstan. “Ragnar said he wants to see you. He said you should meet him at ‘the place on the hill.’ He said you’d know what he meant.”

A flutter ran through Athelstan’s limbs and he shivered. The place in question was the pleasant grove near the waterfall, where first he had allowed Ragnar to take his body in full, and where they had had many a pleasant afternoon’s tryst in the years since. “I do!” He couldn’t keep the eagerness out of his voice.

Torstein noticed, and delivered a playful punch to Athelstan’s arm. “Go,” he ordered. “We’ll meet again this evening, when we take our revenge.”

“Indeed.” Athelstan grinned big, and after a quick squeeze to Torstein’s hand, turned to leave. “Honestly, what I most look forward to,” he called back as he reached the door, “is the look on Horik’s face when he sees you again.” 

 


	31. Eye of the Storm

Chaos and death were only a sunset away, yet all Ragnar could think about was Athelstan finally being in his arms once again.

As he waited for his lover to arrive at their favorite spot near the waterfall, Ragnar felt a flutter of nervousness in his belly. It had been so long since they last had been intimate that he wondered if things had changed. Athelstan had seemed keen enough in the few moments they’d had alone since being reunited, but both of them had been through so much in the past year that he feared it might at least be awkward to make love again. Too, he wondered whether Athelstan’s return to his faith might well have made him reluctant or ashamed to share his body in the ways that his holy men called a sin, or whether the violence he had endured at the hands of his countrymen might have made him fearful of being touched.

Ragnar needn’t have worried. As soon as Athelstan rounded the bend and saw him, he broke into a run, and nearly tumbled them both to the ground with his exuberant embrace.

“Whoa!” Ragnar pushed back to catch his breath, and chuckled.

Athelstan’s cheeks went pink, and he flashed a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I’m just happy to see you.”

“And I, you.” Ragnar returned the smile. “Though I apologize for tearing you away from Torstein. How is he?”

“A touch pale and weak, but he’s in fair condition. I’ve seen him in worse shape after just a night of drinking.”

Ragnar nodded. “Good. We will need all the help we can get tonight. Floki mentioned that Horik plans to attack at sunset, so we all need to be in place by then. I have briefed everyone else on where they should be. Lagertha will taking her company to the guest house, and I would like you to—“

Athelstan clamped a hand over his mouth. “Enough!” he growled.

“Hnn?” Ragnar mumbled, confused.

Athelstan rolled his eyes. “We can discuss battle plans later. I’ve been away from you for more than a year. For the love of all the gods, please stop talking and kiss me!”

Laughing, Ragnar gladly did so.

The joy of reuniting and the sparks of memory from all the blissful times before that they had come to this place snuck up on Ragnar. Only a short time after they had disrobed and curled around each other on the soft ground, he was finished.

"Wow!" Athelstan giggled as he pulled away. "Usually I am the one finishing so quickly. I guess you did miss me."

Ragnar lightly thumped his head. "Figured that out, did you?" His eyes flicked over Athelstan's body. "I am not done with you yet,” he said, brushing his lips over Athelstan’s cheek. “I just need a few moments’ rest."

"Of course." Athelstan lay back and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, as he often did when trying to calm himself—a practice honed in his many years of celibacy. Soon enough, the urgency passed, and they both lay there in the grass, quietly kissing and caressing.

It was late summer, and the air was warm, with just a light breeze cooling the sweat on their bodies. Birdsong and the soft roar of the water were a relaxing backdrop to their coupling; the natural world was unaware of the bloodshed that awaited them at dusk. Ragnar wished they could stay there forever, and that the fight would somehow become unnecessary, but Athelstan’s beautiful nakedness next to him had sparked more than just love and desire. Though they were mostly faded, the network of thin scars that streaked his legs and torso, and the deeper, uglier ones on his hands reminded Ragnar of Horik’s perfidy. For every hurt Athelstan and the rest of the people he loved and cared for had endured thanks to the corrupt king, he wished to return it tenfold.

Yet quiet gentleness of the man who lay beside him had also reminded Ragnar that there was more he could do to salve those wounds than merely exact violent revenge. Raising up on an elbow, he reached over to his lover’s peaceful face, and pushed a lock of hair from his forehead, revealing the light marks there.

Athelstan blinked and looked up, favoring him with a warm, languid smile. “Ready so soon?”

Ragnar shook his head. “No, but it doesn’t matter. You have served me for so many years. Let me serve you.”

“Are you sure? I can—Oh!” Athelstan’s words dissolved as Ragnar began kissing his neck.

He took his time, dropping gentle kisses on every scar, every mark, every wounded place on Athelstan’s body. A whip cut on his chest was tenderly licked. A deep scar on his thigh was lightly stroked. And his palms were each brought to Ragnar’s mouth, as if he could somehow make the divots in them disappear with just the touch of his lips. By the time he had attended them all, Athelstan was trembling and making small, broken noises. Ragnar looked up, and noticed that his lover was fighting tears.

“Are you all right?” Ragnar murmured. “Shall I stop?”

“No.” Athelstan gently guided his head back down. “Please continue. _Please_. I need you.”

Ragnar understood, and set to a new task. He wanted to try to make it last, but it seemed barely a few heartbeats had passed before Athelstan cried out. Only a moment after, he broke down, his body convulsing with deep, ragged sobs.  

Ragnar pulled away and took Athelstan in his arms, letting him bury his face in his chest. He held him as tightly as he could while all the grief and misery poured out—a release that Athelstan clearly needed even more than the physical one. Ragnar soon found tears sliding down his own cheeks, and he petted Athelstan’s soft, tangled hair, whispering words of love to soothe them both.

Finally, the sobs quieted, and Athelstan settled back to catch his breath. After a while, he spoke again. “I begged God to save me,” he said, rubbing his swollen eyes. “He sent me the king, who rescued me and cared for me. I was—am—grateful for that. But that was not the only saving I needed, and Ecbert was not the savior I had wished for. I tried to return to my old life—to return to the piety that I once knew—but I could not. I still love God, but I love you also, and I could not bear us being parted. I tried to pray it away, but not a day went by that I didn’t miss you, and hope you would someday come for me.”

“Not a day went by that I didn’t want to." Ragnar traced Athelstan's mouth with a fingertip. "Even when they told me you had likely died, I refused to believe it. I knew you had to be alive, and that I had to go back and find you.”

“And you did.” Athelstan smiled and reached up to stroke Ragnar’s cheek.

“I did,” Ragnar echoed. “I would do it again if ever I had to. Though I dearly hope I do not.  I would rather not have to fight another war to get you back again.” He winked.

“Understandable!” Athelstan chuckled softly. “You needn’t worry, however. I am a free man now, but I am still yours. I will be by your side as long as you wish me to be.”

“Good. Because I like having you there.” Ragnar dropped a kiss on a damp cheek. “Though I also like having you in other positions,” he purred.

“Ah!” Athelstan squirmed and giggled. “I see you aren’t done with me, then.”

“Of course not,” Ragnar murmured. “And by all the gods--mine and yours--I swear I never will be.”


	32. King for a Night

Two days on, and the dizzy, sick feeling would not leave Ragnar. Horik’s blood still stained the floor of his great hall. The stench of the man’s death still filled his nose. The guilt over having to order the executions of Horik’s children still made his belly ache, as if he had swallowed a rat that was now trying to gnaw its way out. He sought no comfort in the arms of his wife, his lover, or his sons. He found no joy in the love and loyalty of his friends. He could not eat; he could not sleep, for the question that filled his mind:

He was king, now, but _should_ he be?

Kattegat was silent in these still, dark hours long before dawn. Aslaug had returned to bed after Ivar’s last feeding and was sound asleep. Only the beasts of night and the lapping of the waves on the shore made any sound to cover his footfalls as he strode across the courtyard and into the hall. 

Yet, he was not alone.

“When did you last sleep?”

The room was dim, lit only by shreds of moonlight and the embers of last night’s fire, but he didn’t need his sight to tell him who had asked the question—nor where the asker was sitting.

“What are you doing there?” Ragnar asked, approaching the dais.

“I asked my question first,” Athelstan said.

He knew he should be offended by the cheek, but he couldn’t muster the indignance. “I don’t remember,” he answered honestly. He thought he may have drifted off a time or two, with the help of a lot of ale, but it was never for long.

Athelstan sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

“I answered your question,” Ragnar said. “What about mine?”

Athelstan chuckled lightly. “I just wanted to know what the world looked like from here. I wanted to see if it felt any different to be sitting in this chair instead of looking up at the person in it.”

“And does it?” Ragnar sat on the step below, settling his back against the chair.

“Not really. It’s just a chair. Not even a very comfortable one, to be honest.”

Ragnar couldn’t help a bitter laugh. “It’s not, no.” His head felt heavy, and he let it fall, resting his cheek against Athelstan’s knee.

Athelstan petted his head, fingertips tracing the path of the braid. “Do you know what my name means in my language?”

Ragnar hummed softly. “Stan . . . stone.”

“’Athel’ is ‘noble.’ I am ‘noble stone.’ Rather a strange name for a poor family to give their son, isn’t it?”

“Now that you mention it. Do you know why?”

“Not specifically, but I can guess. Nobility means so very much in England. Gaining any sort of power is next to impossible if you’re not already born to it. There are wars for various high seats, certainly, but those wars are usually fought by those already rich enough to have armies. The rest of us just till their lands, grow their food, bless their souls . . . and fight those wars. I think my mother knew her children would lead hard, short lives, but she still wanted better for us, and I think that came out in our names.”

“That makes sense,” Ragnar said. “But maybe your mother gave you your destiny. With that name and your education, maybe it’s right that you’re the one sitting in that chair instead of me.”

Athelstan shook his head. “No. I don’t want that kind of power. Do you?”

“Yes and no.” Ragnar closed his eyes, concentrating on the gentle contact. “I didn’t want to become earl. I only wanted enough autonomy to explore and find new lands. I had to kill Earl Haraldson because he attacked my family.”

“As did Horik. He was going to kill all of us; that was his plan. You, me, Aslaug, your children.”

“Yes.”

“Even though you had no designs on his position to begin with—contrary to what he thought.”

Ragnar bit his lip. “Yes,” he said again, “I have become king, but this is not what I intended. This is not who I believe myself to be. I have . . . done things that I would never have dreamed doing.”

“I know.” Athelstan stroked his cheek. “You’re an unusual man, Ragnar. I think you know that. Everyone else knows it, too, but I don’t think they understand exactly what it is that’s unusual about you.”

Ragnar frowned. “Which is?”

“Your passion and your desire for glory are not the same as other men. You don’t want power; you want knowledge. You want the poets to call you a pioneer, not a conqueror. You are truly a descendant of the Allfather in that sense. Yet other men don’t understand that. They don’t understand why any man would seek a different path than the path to power they want for themselves. So when they see you striking out, seeking what’s over the horizon, they see it as an act of aggression.”

“So it will always be like this, then. Men will always believe I mean to attack them, and I will always have to overcome them—however I must—to stop that.” Ragnar rubbed his gritty eyes.

“Perhaps. But I will tell you this: Even if it is not your aim, I think you actually are far better suited to rule than the men who have ruled you before.” He smiled, and gave Ragnar’s head a nudge. “Any other man who owned this seat would have beaten me for sitting in it, and yet here you are sitting at my knee instead of blackening my eyes.”

Ragnar squirmed. “I would never do that to you.”

“I know. And that’s why I think you do belong here, even if you don’t really want it. When I was your slave, you always ruled me with love, not fear. You do the same for your children, and for your subjects. That is how a leader becomes great. It is why I stayed with you instead of trying to run away. It is why I came back to you.” He tilted Ragnar’s chin up and looked into his eyes. “Yes, people know that the justice you issue is hard and swift and sure, but it is _just_ , and that makes all the difference.”

Part of him wondered whether Athelstan was merely trying to make him feel better, or whether even he, too said these things out of fear of reprisal, rather than honesty. But another part of him simply enjoyed the feeling of Athelstan’s hand on his face. “All right,” he finally said. “I will take you at your word.”

“I’m glad. I think you’ll do far better in this chair than I ever would,” Athelstan said. Then a strange look crossed his face. “Although . . .”

“What?”

“I think you do look kind of good down there.” Athelstan smiled significantly.

Ragnar felt a sudden stirring; a positive sensation that seemed almost alien to how he had felt the last few days. “Do I?”

“You do. And in fact, I feel I must order you to get on your knees and swear fealty to me.” Athelstan’s hand curled around Ragnar’s braid and gave it a tug.

Ragnar’s breath caught in his chest. The weight of the world seemed to have fallen on his shoulders, and though he now felt able to bear it, he still didn’t want it there. The idea of at least putting it aside for a short while certainly had its appeal. He knew there was at least some small risk of someone walking in on them, but at the moment he didn’t care. He smiled and nodded. “As you command, My King.”


	33. Chill

The moon had cycled in full, and was half again through another, before the near-constant tension left Athelstan's shoulders. The chaos was over, or so it seemed. He was back in Kattegat—back with Ragnar—and the man who had threatened their peace was now dead, his existence memorialized only by a darkened section of floorboards in the Great Hall.

The first flurries of late fall were now beginning to blow through the air, looking at turns like bits of late-spring cottonwood fluff, or dust motes glittering in a warm summer sunbeam. The edge to the cold breeze, however, told their true story: Winter beckoned, and thus of course did the long, quiet nights of the Northern freeze, when straying too far from the fires and human warmth within strong wooden walls could spell death.  

Yet for some reason, he couldn't bear the thought of staying inside. Instead, he lately found himself where he was now: standing on the shores of the village, staring out over the water and thinking of the green, moist land that lay to the west. The greenest parts of it were not his homeland in specific—that was instead the windswept moors of the rocky North—but the whole of it was still was far less harsh than the land he now called home. He understood why Ragnar wanted to build a settlement there. What he didn't understand was why he felt as if he wanted to live in it. Dread of the next few months of frigid weather didn't seem to be reason enough. Were it warmth he craved, he could easily find it in the arms of at least a few of the people here—one in particular. What he truly wanted, he did not know. It just seemed as if he'd find it more easily out here than around anyone else.

"Athelstan?"

He turned. Bjorn, a fur slung around his shoulders and his cheeks pink with the ice in the air, approached him. "Hello." Athelstan smiled, though it felt artificial to do so.

"My father has been looking for you. What are you doing out here? Are you not cold?" He moved to give him the fur wrap, but Athelstan waved him off.

"I am fine. The air is bracing." In truth, he was actually fairly cold, now that he was reminded of it. "Did Ragnar say why he needed me?"

Bjorn shrugged. "You would know better than I." He glanced down at Athelstan's hands and reached for one. "At least let me give you my gloves. Your hands are turning red—oh."

Athelstan gently pulled his hand back, and stuffed both under his knitted vest. Ragnar of course knew of his scars, though not yet the exact way they had come about. Torstein had noticed them when they were sharing a room, but said nothing.  Elisef, when he assisted her with Torstein's post-poisoning care, had only handed him a small pot of a strong-smelling salve. "It will help those fade," she said, and then dropped the topic. No-one else in Kattegat had seemed to notice or care, at least until now.

Bjorn looked back out at the water. He was quiet for some time, then finally spoke. "When I was young, you told my sister and me the story of your God. You said how he had been betrayed by someone close to him, and that had led to his torture and death. You showed me the silver cross you carried, and told me what it represented."

"And you laughed." Athelstan couldn't help a small grin as he remembered the petulant adolescent he had met so many years ago.

Bjorn smiled sheepishly. "I did. It's not as if there are no strange tales of my gods, but that story somehow seemed silly to me. I didn't know why Christians would celebrate something so awful—why they would turn a torture device into a symbol of faith."

"And do you understand it now?"

"I think so." Bjorn frowned. "It is like a sacrifice, right? Like how we use the death of animals, and sometimes people, to prove our devotion to the gods."

Athelstan nodded. "That is basically it, yes."  

"I was angry with you when you were supposed to be sacrificed at Uppsala, and then were not. I really liked Leif, and I thought it was better that a slave should have died. But I know now why you were not the best choice. Leif's death was an honor to our gods. Your death would have brought only grief—especially to my father." Bjorn sighed, and chewed his lip. "I have seen too much unnecessary suffering now to be able to tolerate it for long. My mother—well, that's not my truth to tell. Suffice it to say that I now think pain should always have a purpose." He nodded back down at Athelstan's hands. "I suppose that yours did not."

Athelstan went quiet. For months after his torture, he had begged God to reveal to the reason why he had suffered so. He believed, for a while, the logic that his tormentors had used: that he needed to be reminded of the suffering of Jesus to bring him back to faith. That was, after all, the same logic that he had grown up with. The poverty, the chastity, the suffering in silent devotion—all were meant to remind him and his fellow monks that this life—this body—was unimportant, and that only the life to come was of any matter. But the longer he stayed in Wessex, and the more his wounds healed, the more he had begun to remember that the other culture into which he had been forcibly thrust did things differently. Death and sacrifice were matters of honor, and pain was often inflicted as punishment or by the cruel, but the gods were also honored in other ways: joy, love, and laughter; feasts and other pleasures of the flesh. One's death in battle was the path to Valhalla, not endless suffering while still alive. "I do not know," he finally said. "I wish I had the answer to that, to be honest."

"I will let you decide on that yourself, then. But please, let me at least convince you that there is no purpose to you freezing out here." Bjorn extended an arm.

Athelstan sighed, and smiled. "Consider me convinced." Ducking under the arm—when did the boy he remembered get so tall, anyway?—he trudged back up the beach toward the village.


	34. Respite

Athelstan needed sleep—a lot of it, these days—but he often didn't get nearly enough. He was still healing from both torture and mental toil, and though being back in Kattegat—back with Ragnar—had done much to soothe both body and soul, he still felt significantly less healthy than he had before . . . before everything happened.

Alas, despite the herbal tisanes Elisef had given him to help him rest, he nevertheless kept waking early every morning to the pained cries of someone else entirely. As baby Ivar had grown, so, too had his natural instincts to move more. At his age, he should have been sitting up and trying to crawl, but of course, with his legs in such a condition, that was impossible. Every attempt he made at moving only brought the poor infant—and his harried parents—more pain.

Elisef and the other wise women and healers had done all they could for the child; nothing seemed to help. Privately, Athelstan continued to pray that perhaps someday, the child's pain would cease, whether by miracle or mercy.

This morning was no different than other recent ones, save one thing: The sound of Ragnar and Aslaug arguing over the baby's cries. This Athelstan found far more disturbing than even the child's wailing. He didn't want to get in the middle. He knew very well that Aslaug allowed her husband's interest in him only barely, and attempting to take sides or play mediator would likely only have made things worse. Still, there was one thing he could do.

Dressing quickly, he shuffled out into the cold and across the path to the king's living quarters. The argument had toned down, but the baby still cried. Tentatively, he knocked on the door.

"Ragnar? Aslaug?" he called.

The angry words stopped, suddenly. Then, "Come in, Athelstan," Aslaug called toward the door.

He did so. Ubbe and Hvitserk, rubbing sleep out of their eyes and chatting between themselves, attended to Sigurd in one corner, helping the toddler into his day clothes. Ragnar, his face reddened with anger, paced behind his wife. And Aslaug leaned over a table, changing Ivar's soiled swaddling clothes while he continued to wail. Athelstan was still unused to the full sight of Ivar's malformed legs, and had to force himself not to look away. As a monk, he had often been called on to bless and care for those with illnesses or disabilities; he had seen many unpleasant things in his time. Still, the sight of an infant with such a misfortune clutched at his heart in deeper, sadder ways. An adult could at least understand their condition; a child, especially one so young, knew only misery.

"I'm sorry if I am intruding," he began. "I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help."

As Aslaug sponged away the mess, a lock of hair fell in her eyes. She rubbed an arm across her brow, and the change in light made it clear to Athelstan exactly how exhausted she truly was. Her lovely, aristocratic features were sunken and gray, her lips pale. "I wish you could," she said grimly. "Siggy normally helps me with the children, but today she asked to spend more time with Rollo, so I am on my own."

Athelstan glanced back at Ragnar. They had plans today—and some of them involved going back to Athelstan's room to do things he very much wanted to—but it seemed he was needed elsewise. "You needn't be, if you don't wish it. I know it's been a while since I helped with your children, but surely things have not changed so much that I have forgotten how."

Stopping in the middle of fastening a clean cloth around the baby, she sighed and glanced over her shoulder.

Ragnar, his face a little dark, looked between the two. Athelstan could tell he was frustrated at the change of plans, but he nodded anyway. "Let him help, wife. There is no one else I would trust to attend to my sons."

"Even this one?" She picked up the baby, and did her best to calm him.

Ragnar looked away. Finally, he approached Ubbe. "Come, boys. Let's go to the Hall and get some food, shall we?" With a gentle shove to his son's shoulder, he steered the three older children out of the room.  

After they left, Athelstan approached her. "May I?" he reached out.

With a small sigh, she handed over the baby.

Athelstan almost laughed as he looked closely at the infant's face. All of Ragnar's sons bore his look, but this one, his features twisted in frustration, resembled him even more closely. "I see you have your father's temper," he told the child.

Aslaug laughed. It was a tired, weak sound, but a good one under the circumstances. She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "I have tried so many things to help him," she said, rubbing at her darkened eyes. "I simply cannot."

Athelstan tried a few things himself: Stroking the baby's cheeks and forehead, giving him a finger to suckle, gently petting his shiny curls. None seemed to do much good. "Has he had his morning feeding, yet?"

She nodded. "We had just finished that when Ragnar and I . . . well. I figure you heard that."

He smiled sadly, letting the question of the subject of their argument go unasked. "Well, as he's been fed and cleaned, all that's left is to try to entertain him and then get him to sleep, yes?" It had been a while since he had taken a few shifts minding Ubbe and Hvitserk when they were this age, but he figured the rhythms of baby care were largely the same.

"Yes," she confirmed. "I usually tell him stories and give him this" she handed over a toy, a small carved stick on which had been tied some bells and other shiny bits of metal. "It distracts him somewhat."

Athelstan dangled the toy over the child, who reached for it. "All right, then. Why don't you go back to bed? I'll take him back to my room so you can have some quiet time, at least for a little while."

She looked as if she were about to cry. "Are you certain?"

"Of course." He smiled at her. "I will bring him back when it's time for his next feeding. I'll even change him if needed." He reached for a stack of clean cloths on the table. "Sleep." Looking back at the infant, he took on a stern tone. "You, too, Ivar. Time to close your eyes." Gently bobbing the child in his arms as he headed for the door, he began singing one of his old chants, something that had occasionally helped the other children to sleep when he cared for them before. To his delight, the song seemed to work, at least somewhat. The volume and intensity of the caterwauling at least calmed to a degree.

Aslaug climbed in under the furs. "That is a Christian song, I assume?"

Athelstan hesitated at the doorway. "It is. Would you like me not to sing it to him?"

She shook her head. "No. I would like you to teach it to me someday. I love my gods, but at this point, I'm willing to ask help from yours, too."


	35. Reveille

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stolen moments are often all they have.
> 
> Set shortly before 3x01

The sound of steady dripping woke Athelstan early. Though the air was still bitterly cold, it had warmed enough that the deep drifts of snow were beginning to melt from the pitched roofs of Kattegat, creating icicles that froze overnight and then began to sweat as the sun crept over the horizon, the drips percussing the objects and ground outside in a deep, almost musical rhythm.

He yawned and shifted, and as his eyes fluttered open, a hint of dawn and last night's embers lit his room enough that he could see he wasn't alone.

"Hullo, love," he murmured as the figure approached the bed.

"Did I wake you?" Ragnar said, a note of concern in his voice. "I was hoping I could get in without doing so."

Athelstan shook his head. "No. I was waking on my own. You didn't bother me. You never do." He chuckled softly. "Well, unless you intend to." He moved over slightly and lifted the covers.

Ragnar dropped the fur wrap from his shoulders and kicked off his shoes, and then quickly slid in. Athelstan shivered at the rush of coldness. "Sorry!" Ragnar said, dropping a kiss on his cheek. "I should warm up soon, I hope."

Athelstan smiled. "It doesn't matter. I'm always warm enough when you're near." He nestled into Ragnar's open arms, finding a comfortable place with his head on Ragnar's chest, over his thumping heart. The feeling was glorious, but a hint of guilt prodded at his mind. "How are the children? Still asleep?"

Ragnar made a tired noise. "Ivar had a feeding a short while ago. He and Aslaug are both asleep again. The others are still well out, though Sigurd will probably be waking soon—the dawn always opens his eyes." He shrugged slightly. "If Aslaug needs help with them, she can wake Siggy. I needed to be with you."

Athelstan felt his jaw tighten. Though Aslaug had always been gracious with him, and was grateful for his recent help with the children, she'd also seemed especially aloof with him in recent weeks. Her husband had been leaving their bedchamber most nights to instead crawl into his lover's bed, as he had this morning, and it was becoming obvious that her tolerance for this was growing thin. Much as Athelstan's conscience—and his genuine care for her well-being—made him wary, however, he couldn't deny that he enjoyed the more-frequent company. After nearly a year of being apart and a bloody, awful battle and transfer of power, the quiet comfort of Ragnar's warm, rough hands on his scarred skin was becoming to him as necessary as food and drink.

Too, the luxury of Ragnar's touch came with a sense of protection. In his time back in Kattegat—back in the place that he could most easily call home—it had become apparent that not everyone was as happy to see him return as the king's family and closest company. Torstein was still as friendly as ever, albeit somewhat distracted by a pair of women that wanted to lay claim to him, but few others seemed to be truly glad to have him around again. Only Lagertha had been genuinely welcoming, but she had returned to her duties in Hedeby, and he missed her companionship and the easy way she deflected any hostile stares or words others aimed at him. Ragnar of course did this readily, but he didn't have nearly the time to do so as often as Athelstan felt the need. So these late nights and early mornings in the safety of his arms were important for that reason, too.

For now, however, he was still drowsy in this early hour, as was Ragnar, so for a time, he simply dozed, thoughts about the coming spring and some less-pleasant things drifting through his mind. All too soon, his body reminded him that there were other necessities. He whimpered in frustration, and moved out of Ragnar's embrace.

"Hm?" Ragnar's eyes flipped open.

"I need to . . ." Athelstan scooted out of the bed, aiming for the chamber pot nearby.

"Oh. Come back soon. My arms miss you already."

"Just your arms?" Athelstan glanced over his shoulder and flashed a sly grin as he untied his breeches.

"Arms. Legs. Toes. Tongue. That little space behind my ears you like to kiss."

Athelstan shivered, and tried to change his train of thought so the business he was doing wouldn't be made awkward. He finished quickly, and then rushed back under the furs and blankets. Ragnar's body was already primed for him by the time he returned. "Seems this missed me, too," he said, as he slid a hand between them.

"Always," Ragnar murmured into his mouth.

Their lovemaking was often passionate and rough, but in the stillness of this crisp dawn, with half-lidded eyes and minds still prone to waking dreams, their fire was more of a smolder than a blaze. The slow, gentle caresses made things last longer than they usually did, and when their peaks eventually came, they, too were drawn-out, and all the more satisfying for it.

Both wanted to return to sleep when they were done, but a piercing, telltale cry from the rooms next door made such blissful lethargy impossible.

"We should get up," Athelstan said, his sense of responsibility now coming forward in the ebb of other needs.

His lover grumbled. "We should." He lay there, unmoving even so, and then Athelstan felt him tremble.

Athelstan propped up on an elbow. "What's wrong?" He looked over. It was hard to tell in the low light, but he thought he saw a glittering trail leading down from Ragnar's eyes.

Ragnar brushed at his face. "Don't worry about it."

Athelstan raised an eyebrow. "Has telling me that ever worked?"

Ragnar chuckled. "Point taken." He sighed, and tugged thoughtfully at his beard. "I only wish . . ."

"What?"

"That I could wake up next to you every morning, and hold you in my arms as I fall asleep every night." Ragnar smiled sadly.

Athelstan knew he needn't voice his agreement. He also knew he didn't need to voice the reasons why doing so, much as they both wanted it, was impossible. He leaned down and cupped Ragnar's damp cheek, hoping that, as they had done before, his lips could say more than words.


	36. Troubled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ragnar has been mired in worry of late. His son notices.
> 
> Set during 3x01, before Ragnar's conversation with Athelstan.

"Are you ill, Father?"

After a swallow of ale, Ragnar forced a smile. "Of course not. I am perfectly all right. Why do you ask?"

Bjorn shrugged. "It's just that you seem . . . distant these days. And troubled. Are you not excited that we will be sailing again soon?"

"I am. Most definitely. I can't wait to leave." Ragnar glanced over his shoulder. Aslaug sat alone at a table in the back. His younger sons milled about her, and Ivar, as usual, whimpered in pain as he slept in the cradle box nearby. If he could have taken them with him to Wessex—leaving their mother behind—he would have. They still needed a few more years, however, and Ivar . . . well, he might never be ready for such a journey. The boys still needed their mother, even if their father was beginning to question whether he did.

Bjorn knew all of this, though—at least by implication—and didn't necessarily seem upset by the fading of his father's marriage. Though Aslaug had been kind and welcoming to her husband's eldest, even freeing the slave girl with whom he had fallen in love, Ragnar knew Bjorn would never look at her as a mother. The woman who bore him still held his devotion and always would. Ragnar could not deny that he understood the feeling. Part of him always wished he had sent Aslaug away with a sum of treasure as payment for the child of his she carried, so that Lagertha would never have felt obligated to leave. She enervated him, no doubt, but there were things about him that she always understood without question. The true reason for his fatigued demeanor, for instance, she would have grasped far better than the woman to whom he was married, now.

His eyes returned to the place they had been resting since he sat down to eat. The door to the Great Hall ajar, Ragnar's most beloved stood in the gap, arms folded, still, staring out as if expecting someone to arrive.

"What is it, then?" Bjorn followed his gaze. "Athelstan?"

Ragnar didn't answer, choosing instead to reinvest in the hunk of bread he'd been gnawing.

His son was far too canny for that, however. Lowering his voice, he leaned over. "Are you two having . . . well . . . problems?"

Ragnar chuckled. "Sounds like the voice of experience. I could ask you the same." He looked at the table nearby. Þorunn had been practically attached to his son's side for months and now, he had learned, she was insistent on going with them to Wessex. Not that Bjorn was necessarily happy about that.

"You didn't answer my question." The boy nudged his shoulder.

Ragnar looked down at his plate, and murmured, softly enough that Bjorn had to strain to hear. "I am well. Things between us are well."

"But he is not."

Ragnar sighed, and brushed crumbs from his beard. He hadn't the heart to tell Bjorn the entire truth: Since their return from Wessex six months ago, though their private moments together had been blissful and, he believed, healing for both of them, something in Athelstan's manner the rest of the time still seemed off. Though his scars had faded well—the divots in his hands were still evident, but at least the whip marks on his body were all but invisible—something inside the man he loved was still broken, and Ragnar could find no way to fix it.

"Does it have to do with his wounds? Or rather what caused them?" Bjorn, too, watched the man in question, his expression one of kind concern.

Ragnar raised an eyebrow. "You know about that?"

Bjorn shook his head. "Not entirely. I know about the scars, but not entirely what caused them. A few months ago, I noticed them, and though he did not tell me in so many words, I believe I understand."

Ragnar set his jaw. He tore the remainder of his bread into tiny pieces. "It is something to do with that, yes. Though it is complicated, and not something I am charged with sharing with others." Doing so, he knew, would not only be a violation of Athelstan's privacy, but could put him in danger. Few in Kattegat trusted him these days. Most still believed, even after Horik had been revealed to be a liar, that the man who had come to their war camp in Christian clerical garb had in some way conspired with King Ecbert to defeat their forces in Wessex, and craft a treaty that some felt was not nearly fair enough. Some, even as several boats were being outfitted with supplies to start settling the land they'd been promised, wanted to return to Wessex to try again to conquer the Saxons by force. Were these people to know that their king's former slave had retained a great deal of his Christian faith, their attitudes toward him would have become far more toxic than mere mean-spirited gossip and unfriendly faces. Their trust in their king, as well, would falter. For even if they didn't know that Ragnar himself had begun believing, to a degree, that perhaps this Jesus about whom Athelstan had taught him over the years might really be a god after all, they would know of his affection for one who believed it even more deeply.

He managed to pull his gaze from Athelstan long enough to scan his son's face instead. Even Bjorn, much as he loved the man who had cared for him as a willful adolescent, would find it hard to accept the full truth of what Athelstan—and by extension, Ragnar—was dwelling on these days. "It is nothing you need to concern yourself with, though," he finally said, hoping that meant the conversation was over.

Bjorn was nothing if not persistent, however. "I am concerned. I cannot help it. I am worried about you, Father. And about him, too." He brought his face even closer. "I admit that I still don't understand some of the kinds of feelings you have for him, but I know you love him, and I know that whatever distresses him is undoubtedly causing you distress as well." He pulled back again. "We have a great undertaking ahead of us. I am concerned for you as my father, but also as my king. For that reason among others, I hope that whatever is troubling you passes soon. I will ask Odin for his help in this. You should, too."  

Ragnar started an answer—albeit one that probably would have begun an argument--but was interrupted by the arrival, through the east door, of Siggy and Rollo. Both looked even worse than he felt; from the way they avoided touching each other, it seemed they had been fighting. Again. Siggy put on a smile and her well-practiced Earl's Wife courtesy, and sidled in to a table with some of the other women; Rollo stalked over to the fire, his expression stormy.

"Hello, Uncle," Bjorn greeted their new companion, and extended to him a plate of dried fish. Rollo didn't smile nor speak, but took a piece, and began mutilating it.

"Well!" Ragnar stood up, glad for the interruption. "Nice talk, Bjorn. I will just be . . . somewhere." He patted his son's shoulder, and strode over to the doorway where stood the only person in the room he really wanted to talk to at all.


	37. Wives and Other Troubles

Though dizzy and drunk on post-coital bliss, Athelstan nonetheless dressed quickly after the furtive tryst with his beloved. The evening meal still in full swing in the hall beyond this private chamber, it was unlikely anyone would come back here. Still, there was always a risk, particularly with Aslaug or the children, that someone might wander into this space and discover them in a position that neither could afford to be public knowledge.

Ragnar was slower to dress. He had been ever less circumspect of late about his feelings for his Christian friend and confidante and was forever skirting the edge of getting caught out. The flirty, uncomfortably public conversation they had just had before coming back here was evidence enough of that. "Do you have to get up?" he whined as he relaced his breeches.

Athelstan hesitated at the doorway. Ragnar lounged on the fur spread across the floor, his expression playful; almost seductive.

Athelstan cocked an eyebrow. "You want another go already?"

Ragnar shrugged. "Not necessarily. I just would like a little more private time with you before we have to go back out there and pretend to most everyone that we’ve not actually been doing what we just did."

Athelstan hesitated.

Ragnar beckoned with a hand. "Come. If anyone sees us, I will tell them you were using some special Christian medicine to help me attend to a sore muscle." 

Athelstan giggled. "Is that what we should call it now? Not sure most Christians would think of it that way." Still, he headed back over and plopped down on the fur, sitting cross-legged next to the shirtless king.

"Much better," Ragnar said, draping an arm around his shoulders.

Athelstan longed for a closer embrace, and perhaps more of the deep, warm kisses they had just enjoyed, but contented himself with the minor contact.

"Looking forward to Wessex?" Ragnar asked, his fingers stroking Athelstan's shoulder.

"I am. To a degree."

"Want to see that Ecbert fellow again, hey?" Ragnar winked.

Athelstan made a face. "Not like that."

"I know. Though I suppose that is not for lack of effort on his part."

Athelstan shook his head. "No indeed. He never said as much, but sometimes, the way he looked at me or touched me, it was . . ."

"Yes?"

Athelstan smirked. "It was the same way you looked at me sometimes when you first brought me here."

"I suppose I was rather transparent," Ragnar admitted.

Athelstan snorted a laugh. "Actually propositioning me was transparent, yes."

"You never answered my question on that, by the way." Ragnar nudged him.

"Would I still say no?"

Ragnar nodded.

"It's a moot point, is it not? You are no longer with Lagertha." Athelstan fiddled with the straps on his boots.

"That didn't stop her from sharing a bed with Aslaug and me the night before we ambushed Horik. That was even their idea, actually." Ragnar smiled languidly with the memory.

"So you think Aslaug would accept you doing something like that without her?"

"Well . . ." Ragnar wrinkled his nose. "Probably not. And I guess I do not know whether Lagertha would still want that anyway."

Athelstan grinned. "That much I do know—sort of."

"Oh?" Ragnar's eyes lit up, and he leaned in. "What have you not told me?"

"Nothing big. The day we came back from Wessex last fall, we had a nice little conversation while you were attending to Rollo. She told me that were I ever to visit her in Hedeby, I was welcome to share her bed."

Ragnar rolled his eyes and flopped back on the floor. "Now that's just unfair," he protested.

"What? Jealous?" Athelstan teased.

Ragnar sat back up. "Of course."

"Of her, or me?"

"Both." Ragnar grumbled. "I will be perfectly honest and say that I very much enjoyed being with both of my wives—even though they were primarily focused on each other rather than me—but I did feel a distinct lack of another very important person. If I could have swapped you into Aslaug's place, I would have in an instant." He hung his head. "I would still do so now."

Athelstan stiffened somewhat. He knew that Ragnar's marriage was strained of late, but to hear him speak of her so callously still disquieted him. He hesitated for a moment, then finally spoke the question. "Do you still love her?"

Ragnar went quiet, and gnawed on a ragged fingernail. "I care for her," he finally said. "I . . . I'm not sure I have ever loved her."

"Not like you love Lagertha?" Athelstan suggested.

"Loved. Once." Ragnar shrugged. "A part of me still burns for her—and I would probably always agree to share her bed if she asked—but that is not the reason for my lack of feelings for Aslaug."

Athelstan fidgeted. "Is it me, then?"

Ragnar smiled gently, and brushed a lock of hair from Athelstan's eyes. "Yes and no," he said. "No, because I suspect I would have lost feelings for her eventually no matter what, but yes because now that I am with you, I have learned what it is to feel this way again, and it is something I have never felt with her."

"But she bore four of your children,” Athelstan felt compelled to remind him. “She nurses one still, and works very hard minding the others."

"Yes, and I am grateful to her for this. I love my sons—even Ivar—and I am proud that I will be leaving such a legacy with them." Ragnar rubbed his eyes. "Please do not think I am being ungrateful or insensitive to what she does for me and our sons, but I simply cannot muster the feelings for her that come so easily to me when I am with you."

Athelstan stared at the fire in the distance. "And does she know this?"

"She has not said as much, but yes. I think she does."

It made sense now, Athelstan considered. Aslaug's increasing emotional distance from him was out of jealousy—the very thing he had counted on being absent in order to assuage his guilt in loving a married man. He still occasionally felt twinges of shame for committing sodomy and fornication. Adding unequivocal adultery to that was going to make things even more painful. "So what do you plan to do?"

Ragnar frowned "Do? There is nothing I can do. My sons need their mother and I cannot exactly tell everyone that I am in love with another. Nothing has changed."

 _Everything_ has changed, Athelstan thought.

Ragnar switched topics. "So what did you tell her? Lagertha, I mean. What did you say to her proposition?"

Athelstan smiled again. "I told her I wasn't sure, which was the truth. She was disappointed, but accepted it."

Ragnar gaped. "Not sure? How could you not be sure?"

"Need I remind you that I have only been with a woman once?"

"Oh. Right. Thyri. That was only once?" Ragnar looked surprised.

Athelstan nodded. "She wanted to do it again, but I was in too foul of a mood after Uppsala. By the time I had begun to reconsider, the plague took her and that was that."

"But have you not considered other women? Surely there are some here who would be happy to oblige."

Athelstan shrugged. "None have interested me, I guess. I admit I do still find Lagertha very attractive, and part of me wonders what it would be like to be with her. I honestly remember little about my night with Thyri, and I am curious to perhaps explore a woman's body again. But as yet, I've just not been quite ready for that."

"Seems like Lagertha is!" Ragnar lightly punched his shoulder.

"Yes, well." He grinned. "Honestly, I am afraid I would be a terrible disappointment to her, with how little experience I have."

"You're hardly a disappointment to me—and were not even when you had no experience at all." Ragnar scoffed. "Besides. I doubt that would be a problem for her. She once confessed to me that she enjoyed being with younger or less experienced men. Said it was fun to break them in." He winked. Athelstan's eyes went wide, and Ragnar laughed. "But I understand. She does seem like a woman one would need to work up to."

Athelstan flushed. Then their previous topic of conversation came back to him, and he grew anxious again. "We should go back out and rejoin the others. They'll be wondering at your absence, at least." He rose, and started making for the door. 

Ragnar made a disappointed sound, but began donning his shirt. "Go ahead of me. I'll be right behind you soon." He grinned. "I did say I would follow you, my John the Baptist."

"You did." Athelstan smiled over his shoulder. As he left the room, however, he remembered: For his loyalty to Jesus, John had lost his head.


	38. One Room, Two Views

Athelstan sighed as the ship sailed away from Kattegat. All around him the men seemed to be complaining about women: Bjorn seemed annoyed to have þorunn along for the journey, grumbling about her when she was out of earshot. Rollo grumbled about Siggy. Torstein grumbled about the pair who claimed—probably truthfully—to carry his children. Floki grumbled about how his home life with Helga and Angrbodða was simply too happy. Athelstan had to bite his tongue at this. Helga was one of the sweetest people he’d ever known, and their daughter was adorable. That Floki seemed not to appreciate what he had made him sad for them. In a different world, it was a life he himself would have been perfectly content to enjoy.

This was not, however, a different world. In this one, his domestic life had its own problems, but here the issue was not a woman of his own, but the one to whom his real love was married. He glanced across the water. Lagertha, his beloved’s first wife, stood proud in her own ship, her shieldmaidens and loyal men ready to follow her blue, _Fehu_ -emblazoned banners anywhere. He understood their belief in her, and wondered idly what life might be like under her rule in Hedeby. Wife number two, however, remained back on the shore. Aslaug had said little to Ragnar as they left, and nothing at all to him. He had bid her goodbye, and wished the children, especially Ivar, well, but all he got in return was a tight smile. Ragnar hadn’t noticed this, being busy chatting with Bjorn at the time, and Athelstan hadn’t yet mentioned it. He wasn’t sure he was going to. The farther behind them Kattegat lay, the easier it was to forget the issues the queen raised. His plan for the journey remained the same as it ever had: Being by Ragnar’s side whenever possible, whether for negotiations, establishing the settlement, or, if necessary, battle. Of course, there were other things for which they would also be together, but if he thought about them now, the rest of the waterbourne part of the journey was going to be far too frustrating to bear.

The crossing was uneventful, save for one violent squall two days into it, and then, finally, they were back on English soil and unloading ship upon ship full of people and cargo on the way to settle the farmland King Ecbert had promised. As it had the first time he returned, the smell of the damp, mild air and the sight of the lush, green landscape stirred something deep and childlike within him. This time, however, the pleasant feelings were accompanied by ones far less so. He reflexively closed his fists, the wounds in his palms unaccountably sore as he recalled their origin.

Ragnar seemed to notice his unease. “Everything all right?” He sidled up to Athelstan, settling a reassuring hand a little too low on his waist.

Athelstan took a slight step back, looking around to be certain no-one had noticed the intimate touch, and then put on a smile. “I am well, thank you. Simply remembering things.”

“Things,” Ragnar echoed. He reached for Athelstan’s hand, and his thumb brushed over the scar on the back of it.

This touch was simply too nice for Athelstan to back away from. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“I believe this journey will be different,” Ragnar said, squeezing gently and then letting the hand drop. As he walked away, Athelstan saw Floki, unloading a crate from the ship and staring at them. His stomach went a little queasy.

“Priest!” Torstein came up behind him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Shall we get on with this? I am parched and in need of some ale. I hope your countrymen make a good brew!”

“They do!” Athelstan smiled, grateful for the interruption. He shouldered his pack, and followed his cheerful friend up the path from the shore.

It felt odd, he noted, to be in a party approaching the king’s dais in the courtyard, rather than being on it as the nobles welcomed the new arrivals. Ecbert’s eyes went first to Ragnar, then flicked to Athelstan. A confused expression crossed his face at first, then one of pleasant surprise and interest. It made Athelstan feel uncomfortable, but in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Perhaps that was why he was so quick to correct Ecbert’s mistake in calling Ragnar an earl. If being garbed as a Northman wasn’t enough to tell the king of Wessex where his loyalty lay, establishing his service to the king of the Northmen would.

Not that doing so had any effect. The travelers were given time and space to refresh themselves after the journey, and Ecbert was not involved in this. However, mere minutes after welcoming them into the hall for an evening’s feast, the king begged Athelstan to sit beside him and act as a translator. With a baleful look back at Ragnar—who in his turn simply winked and smirked knowingly—Athelstan perched gingerly on the chair offered to him and waited while the others filtered in and took their seats.

“How are you, my Athelstan?” Ecbert beamed, slipping an arm around his shoulders and squeezing roughly. He continued without waiting for an answer. “I have missed you. I was certain I would never see you again. You must tell me about that—about what took you away from me.”

“I had to—“ Athelstan began.

“You of course remember Aethelwulf, my son.” Ecbert gestured at the man as he sat down, and Athelstan nodded a greeting. “And his lovely wife Judith, daughter of King Aelle.” The woman stared at him for a moment, then looked away as she took her seat.

“Pleased to see you again,” Athelstan said politely.

“You know, Judith has borne me a grandson!” Ecbert said proudly. “I am well pleased that my line will continue.”

“Congratulations,” Athelstan said, catching Judith’s eye again. “I saw the child as we arrived this afternoon. It seems he is well and bonny.”

“He is, Father,” she replied, again casting her eyes away.

“You needn’t call me that, I am no longer—“

“And our man of the hour!” Ecbert rose, lifting his glass as Ragnar finally sat down at the end of the table once everyone else had chosen a seat. All other pleasantries forgotten, Athelstan sat back, preparing himself to mentally switch languages on the fly.

After a quick promise to meet up again later in the evening, Ragnar headed back out to tell the rest of his warriors of the plans for fighting in Mercia, leaving Athelstan behind in the stone-walled hallways of the villa to lament that fate was going to part them after all. As he was wallowing in self-pity, and wondering whether being stuck here, rather than on the battlefield with Ragnar, was more punishment from God, a wave of memory washed over him. He hesitated for only a moment, and then headed down to a familiar room, his brain already recalling the smell and feel of dusty, crisp rolls of parchment and pungent ink.

Ecbert was already there waiting for him, wasting no time in asking personal questions and returning to him the cross that he had left behind when he made the choice to return to Kattegat—to, he had thought at the time, the life of a pagan.

He clutched the cross in his hand as Ecbert’s questioning continued. It dug a little into his scar, and he winced.

Ecbert seemed entirely unaware of Athelstan’s discomfort. “Your bedchamber is also still as you left it,” he said, with a solicitous smile.

“Sire,” Athelstan began, “I have things I—“

Ecbert glowered for a moment, then replaced the smile. “Oh, come,” he said. “Please.” He took Athelstan’s arm. “I have missed you so very dearly, and I would love to catch up somewhere a little less drafty.”

Athelstan’s will to object died, and he nodded. “Of course, Sire. Lead on.”

When they arrived at the chamber, Athelstan saw that it was, indeed, just as he left it. His cot was even still made-up, and, to his slight surprise, didn’t even have a layer of dust upon the cover.

He turned at the sound of Ecbert closing the door behind them.

“I was surprised that you left here without even saying goodbye,” the king said, a note of sadness in his voice. “I thought we were . . . friends.

Athelstan felt a twinge of pity. “I am sorry for that. I was afraid that you wouldn't take it well.”

“I suppose you're right.” Ecbert sighed. “I wouldn't have. I have had time now to get over my initial anger, and instead I am just hurt. Did I not treat you with kindness? Did I not give you a chance to do again the work that you loved?

Athelstan nodded. “You did. I am forever grateful that you saved me from the . . . what they were doing to me. I am grateful that I had a chance to do that work for you. In leaving, I meant you no slight. But I had to admit to myself that this was not my home.”

“So your home is with the Northmen. With the pagans.” Ecbert’s tone was flat.

“It is,” Athelstan acknowledged. “Much of my heart is still an Englishman—still a Christian—but I realized that my family was elsewhere. I had to return.”

“Is Ragnar your family, then?”

Athelstan hesitated, wondering how much he could truly confess. “He is,” he finally said. “And his wife, and their children. And many of the other people of his household. It is true that they took me captive all those years ago, but they treated me well in that time, and I grew to love them. I could not deny my heart.”

Ecbert drew closer, and lowered his voice. “I did not have your heart at all, then?”

Athelstan shifted uncomfortably. “As I said, I am—“

“Grateful. I know.” Ecbert rubbed his face and stepped away. “Forgive me, Athelstan. I only thought we had a stronger bond. That is all.”

Athelstan scanned Ecbert’s face. For a moment, the powerful king disappeared, and instead he saw only an aging, tired, and perhaps lonely man. His heart softened. “I did care for you, if that's what you want to know.”

Ecbert smiled sadly. “That is something, then.” His eyes scanned Athelstan’s face, and he raised a hand, poised for a caress. Before it reached Athelstan’s cheek, however, he dropped it, and instead sighed again. “Well, I hope that the Northmen know how lucky they are to have you. You are a remarkable person, Athelstan. I pray that they appreciate that.”

“That's very flattering of you to say.” Athelstan dipped his head. “Thank you.”

“However,” Ecbert continued, “I also hope that somewhere in your heart, you remember where you came from and where your people are. I hope you remember that I am of your homeland, and that some, at least, of your home might remain with me.” He reached for Athelstan’s hand, and stroked a finger over the cross clutched within it. “God, I trust, will watch over you in your absence.”

“I am sure he will,” Athelstan said, though in truth, he could not be less certain of that.

A sharp rap at the door interrupted that thought. “Hullo?” The accented voice speaking the Saxon word was pleasantly familiar.

“Ragnar!” Athelstan’s face erupted into a broad smile as he crossed past Ecbert and opened the door. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

Ragnar nodded a greeting at Ecbert, and then quickly switched his focus back to Athelstan. “Eh. I wanted to find you to, uh, ask you something about Mercia. A guard I talked to said he saw you two heading down this corridor.”

Athelstan made a mental note to say a blessing for the guard in question.

“Is this your old room?” Ragnar continued, strolling around and poking at the ephemera. “Not bad. Though I imagine your bed at home is more comfortable.” He shot a slightly too friendly smile at Ecbert, who returned the expression with one of his own.

Athelstan jumped on the opportunity. “It is. The ticking here is filled with straw, while the one at home is wool.”

Ecbert edged his way between them and spoke up. “Well, I am sorry things here were not more comfortable for you,” he said sharply. “Perhaps I can remedy that for your stay here, while the warriors are away doing battle for the princess.” He caught Ragnar’s eye. “I assume your men will be ready for the journey soon?”

Ragnar nodded, unperturbed. “Of course. After a couple of nights’ rest and resupplying, my ships and warriors will be sailing upriver for her cause.”

“Wonderful!” Ecbert clapped a hand on his shoulder.

The room grew uncomfortably quiet for a moment, then Ecbert strode toward the door. “Well. I am sure, Ragnar, that you will be wanting to get back to the chamber I have had prepared for you.”

“I do.” He slid an arm around Athelstan’s shoulders. “Just as soon as I have had a few moments to talk with my . . . Christian friend, here.” He nodded formally at the king. “Do have a good night, King Ecbert. You can sleep well knowing your hospitality is much appreciated.” He smiled broadly.

After a moment’s hesitation, Ecbert finally bid them good night, and stepped away, closing the door behind him a little too loudly.

Athelstan released a breath and sat down on the edge of his old bed, suddenly weary and feeling much like a toy that Ragnar’s sons might have fought over.

“What did he want?” Ragnar nodded toward the door, as he sat down next to Athelstan.

Athelstan shrugged. “Nothing much. Just . . . catching up, I guess.”

Ragnar smirked. “I am sure.” He looked around. “Is this room exactly the same as it was before?”

“Yes. Not a thing has changed, actually. I find it a little odd.”

“I imagine it would be.” Ragnar frowned. “Almost as if . . . well, as if he expected you to come back to it.”

“Perhaps he did,” Athelstan agreed.

“I admit I understand the feeling. Were it not for Jarl Borg occupying Kattegat and tearing it apart, I would have done the same with your quarters there. Once Bjorn found some of your things, I kept them close, so I could feel like you were there with me, too.”

“Like the shirt you gave me?”

Ragnar nodded. “Exactly.”

“I brought that with me, you know.”

“Did you?” Ragnar laughed lightly. “Well, perhaps while you are stuck here in this drafty house and I am busy hacking away at Mercians, you can wear it to remember me.”

“I will. You can be certain of it.” Then, as Ragnar’s lips descended on his, he quickly forgot all thoughts of clothing save how quickly he could remove it.

“What’s that?” Ragnar nodded at the bedside table when they were done. The gold cross had been dropped there as they had fallen into each other’s arms, and it now caught a hint of the moonlight filtering in through the tiny window.

Athelstan rolled over and picked it up. “It was part of my habit while I was here. I had left it behind—along with a ring—when I decided to return to Kattegat, but Ecbert kept it, like he apparently kept everything else of mine.”

“And he wanted you to have it back?” Ragnar took the thing from him, turning it about to look at the craftsmanship.

“He did.” Athelstan watched as Ragnar’s rough fingers traced over the delicate openwork. “I admit, I am sort of glad to have it again.”

“How so?” Ragnar handed it back. “Does it not remind you of . . . the bad things that happened here?”

“I can see how it could, but no. It is the symbol more than the item itself, I suppose. A cross is something that reminds me of God’s love, even if His representatives do not always convey it.”

“So why leave it in the first place, then?”

Athelstan shrugged, and dropped the thing back on the table. “I am not sure. Maybe I thought I needed to leave Christianity completely behind if I was going back to Kattegat.”

“You do not have to do that on my account.”

Athelstan smiled, and kissed Ragnar’s cheek. “I know. I know you are curious to learn about Christianity. But I did not know it then—not really. And I suppose I also wanted to try to be a true Northman—a pagan—if I was going to go back there and feel truly at home.”

“Yet you do not feel at home anyway.”

“Not entirely, no. The only place I feel at home is by your side. I never feel like I belong anywhere else.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, this is a home you will always have, whether you are pagan, Christian, or something in between.” Ragnar pulled him close. “You should wear that cross,” he said, nodding at the item. “It is as much a part of you as anything else.”

Athelstan looked at it again, realizing the truth of Ragnar’s words. “All right, then. I will.”

“Besides,” Ragnar continued, “Perhaps it will mean your God will watch over you when I am away and cannot.” He kissed Athelstan’s forehead.

Athelstan smiled. “Perhaps. But who will watch over you?”

Ragnar shrugged. “I am not sure why, but the Allfather has always at least kept me alive, if not always happy. I have no reason to believe he would not do so now.” He grinned, and nuzzled Athelstan’s cheek. “And if that’s not enough, you can always say a prayer for me.”

“I always do anyway.”

“Then there you go. I trust you to ask for your God’s favor on my behalf.”

Athelstan wasn’t sure God would really grant such favors for a pagan Northman, even one who had prayed himself, but the hope did calm him somewhat—enough so that other feelings began to override the worry. He moved closer into Ragnar’s embrace. “I will do so,” he promised, “But right now, I am not quite in the mood for prayer.” He stroked a hand down Ragnar’s back and rolled his hips.

Ragnar squirmed and smiled as he slipped a warm hand between them. “Well, then! Amen to that.”


	39. Departures

Ragnar's body still ached sweetly from the loving attention that had it had just been paid. Watching his lover standing at the wash basin, tidying up after their tryst, he tried to commit to memory every sensation; every touch, smell, and taste. The echo of their lovemaking was a strong and vivid way to ensure that those memories would stick with him in the weeks to come, when they were all he would have of his beloved. 

"Are we ready for this?" Athelstan said quietly as he began to dress. 

"I cannot speak for you, but I am not. I would rather stay in this bed forever, uncomfortable as it is, than pick up my shield ever again, if it meant I could be with you." Nevertheless, he sat up, and retrieved his clothes from the end of the bed where they had been tossed.

"Would that we had such choices," Athelstan said. He strolled over and blessed Ragnar with a kiss. "It seems the gods have other plans for us right now, however." 

Ragnar reached out to fondle the golden cross that dangled from his lover's neck. "Different gods, different plans. Odin sends me to my sword; Jesus sends you to the plow."

"So it seems."

Ragnar stared at the shiny metal. "Perhaps I should dedicate myself to your God instead, if that's the path He would choose for me." 

Athelstan shrugged. "God has not always chosen a path of peace." 

Ragnar wrinkled his nose, and then grinned teasingly. "Then we should travel the world in search of a god who does."

"I would like that." Athelstan returned the smile. "Alas that we have other duties before we could, though."

The sound of the villa's staff scurrying about for the busy day ahead echoed in the corridor beyond the room, and Ragnar sighed. "I suppose this is our last real farewell, then. For now. I will come back to you, I promise."

"I will hold you to that," Athelstan said, and gave him another sound kiss.

The courtyard was abuzz with preparations for departure: His company to the boats for the journey north, the settlers west for the land that had been promised. All around him were fond goodbyes and wishes for gods' graces and good fortune. He, however, merely hung back, chewing his lip thoughtfully, and watching the rest of the crowd execute the dance.

Most of his attention was, of course, on one person. Not that he was the only one paying it. Aethelwulf's young wife—he couldn't remember her name, but knew her as Aelle's daughter—seemed just as fascinated with his priest. Athelstan, to Ragnar's amusement, seemed bewildered by the attention.

Lagertha, dressed less a warrior than the farmer she was for so many years, strode up to him. "It is time to bid you farewell, it seems."

He nodded at her. "Indeed. I saw that you spoke with Bjorn."

"I did." She glanced over at their son, who was again chatting with the young woman who had claimed his heart. "I admit I worry about him—especially as regards her. Men are known to do such foolish things for the love of a woman."

"As you should well know," Ragnar said with a smirk.

"To whom did you think I was referring?" she shot back, nudging his arm. They both laughed lightly, then she grew serious again. "Look after him, Ragnar. Look after our son."

"You know I will," he assured her. His eyes narrowed. In the distance, boots stirring up dust as he strode in from the villa, Ecbert was pushing his way through the crowd. He was dressed for travel, Ragnar noticed, which unsettled him. He turned back to his former wife. "I have a similar request of you," he said, trying to keep an embarrassing note of desperation from his voice.

"Oh?"

"Keep an eye out for Athelstan, if you can."

"Of course. But why?" She looked over. The man in question was stuffing a pack into the back of the wagon in which they'd be traveling.

"I don't trust him," Ragnar said. "Ecbert, I mean." He nodded toward the king. "You are a wise person. You don't trust easily. You can recognize deceit in others. Athelstan, I am afraid, cannot. This king holds a power over him—something which I cannot understand nor break. I fear it will be his undoing."

"I can see that," she said. "I will watch him, then. You can rest assured that I will manage Ecbert in whatever way he needs to be managed." She touched Ragnar's arm. "Remember that I love Athelstan, too, if not exactly the way you do. I will keep him from harm."

Ragnar smiled. "And yourself, too."

She laughed, and leaned up to kiss his cheek. "That, dear Ragnar, is a given." Turning, she headed to the wagon, and climbed in.

From horseback, Ragnar watched as the wagon rolled down the western road. As it crested a hill, he saw Athelstan turn back to look at him. He smiled, a warm, loving expression, and then returned his attention to the road. The last sight Ragnar had was the cream-and-green design of Athelstan's shield, secured to the side of the wagon. He hoped there would be no cause to use it.


	40. Sense Memory

The farmland she gazed at in the valley below was beautiful to see: green, lush, and with a touch of morning mist rising from the dark, moist earth. The sounds of the animals and birds—some familiar, some not—waking and going about their day were pleasant and calming. Yet, what Lagertha kept coming back to was just how good it all _smelled_. Oh, there was the usual stink of animals, refuse, and unwashed humans (the Saxons seemed to eschew bathing, she had noticed), but there were also other, better smells here, too. On the warm, moist air were bourne the scents of the rich soil, flowers in bloom, and summer fruits and vegetables ripening in field and orchard. There also always seemed to be the appetizing scent of bread nearly everywhere she went, from villa to market and even to the camp they had made on this journey. Wheat, barley and other grains grew so easily here that loaf upon fluffy loaf turned out from bakers' stones and ovens every day, in far greater quantity than she had ever seen at home. 

She missed her homeland, that was certain, and hoped Kalf was handling things in Hedeby well in her stead, but part of her wished she could stay here indefinitely with the settlers and bring forth new life from this fertile place in a way her body had not been able to since her beloved, and mourned, daughter was born some 18 years ago. 

Another, more familiar scent drifted toward her on a breeze, followed by the man who carried it. Athelstan had always, to her, smelled of candle smoke, cedar, and salt. He also favored a hand salve made with lanolin and rosemary, which added to the pleasing aroma.

"Lagertha," he nodded at her as he approached. "I trust you are well this morning."

"I am." The Wessex king, Ecbert, had tried to keep her up late with conversation, but though he spoke some of her language and she—unknown to him—was catching on to his, eventually a lack of their translator, who had retired early, got in the way. She wasn't sure whether she felt sad about that or grateful. "I slept well, and rose with the birds. There are some lovely songs in the forests here."

"Indeed. I have always loved morning birdsong. We mostly had sea- and shorebirds at Lindisfarne—at my monastery—but we had others, too: larks, wrens, and the like. Also a few others whose names I never knew, but which I have never seen around Kattegat. It is nice to hear them again."

"Well, I look forward to hearing them more." In truth, she also looked forward to having the peace and quiet necessary to hear them. She had few complaints about her position of power, but one was that she rarely had time to simply stop and enjoy the natural world outside the town and its noisy, attention-begging citizens. It had been so long since she’d gotten her hands dirty in a field of onions or turnips that she began to wonder whether she still knew how.

"How did things go with King Ecbert after I left last night? It seemed you two were getting on well." His voice carried a teasing laugh.

A warm flush came to her cheeks and she looked away. "We were, I think. It is odd for me to be courted thus—and in a language I don't yet understand."

"What do you think of him?"

She shrugged. Ragnar's words about mistrusting Ecbert were still heavy in her mind, yet she could also see in him a certain earnest charm, and wondered if Ragnar's wariness was just a touch of jealousy, given the king's interest in Athelstan—less obvious than his interest in her, and certainly unspoken, but still readily apparent. "I am undecided, yet. Something about him feels slightly off, but I also have no real reason to complain. He has been generous—and certainly flattering."

"He does seem to have taken a fancy to you." Athelstan grinned. "Not that that would be hard to believe."

She looked up and returned his smile. "Thank you." There was much about this endeavor that pleased her, but having her old friend and confidante along for it was high on the list. Ecbert pestered Athelstan almost as much as Ragnar did when they were together, but unlike his eager reciprocation with his long-established lover, the young man seemed far less inclined to encourage it from the king. This made certain that he was usually free to talk to, and she looked forward to taking more advantage of that.

That her mind occasionally came back to idle thoughts of doing more than talking certainly encouraged the feeling. She inhaled deeply, taking in more of his fresh, familiar scent, and threaded an arm through his.

"It is very good to see you again, Athelstan," she said quietly.

"And you," he returned, patting the hand that rested on his arm.

A few days back in field and stable again had reminded her of muscles that she rarely used otherwise, even when she bore her sword and shield. But more keenly than the ache of work-use, her body increasingly ached to be touched again—touched by eager, lustful hands. She had had a few suitors in Hedeby, and she often wondered whether Kalf was ever going to be one of them, but most seemed more interested in her power than her personhood. And then there were those like Einar who saw her primarily as the occupant of a woman's body; that was even less interesting.

This king, however, seemed to appreciate her for all she was. She had implied, though not told him directly, that she was no longer capable of bearing him heirs, but he seemed disinterested in that. His own line was now well established anyway, what with the sunny-faced grandson his daughter-in-law still nursed. Ecbert showed respect for her as a warrior and asked relevant questions about her earldom, yet also flattered her as a woman, a combination she found refreshing. There was, of course, no question that she would ever really remain here with him, but more and more she began to think that perhaps a month or two sharing his bed might not be a bad idea—to address certain needs, if nothing else. Much as she didn’t miss Ragnar’s childishness and the bickering that had become the end of their marriage, she did miss other things about being with a man who did not see sex as a means to possess her. The one night they had shared with his new wife last autumn was enough to remind her of what she had lost in that respect.

Being around Athelstan again had also reminded her of the other thing she had lost when she left her first husband. She guessed that the young man probably wasn't ready to be with her—or perhaps any woman—and in any case was quite seriously stuck on Ragnar. Yet she still couldn't help her physical responses to his presence. Finding a way to scratch that itch—with a man who himself certainly wasn't unattractive, if rather older than she usually found interesting—might well be useful.

So it was with pleasure that she accepted the king’s invitation to return to his villa, and the jewelled necklace with which he had gifted her.

“It suits you,” Athelstan said as they made their way back down the corridor to the chamber the king had provided for her. Ecbert had implied that he wished her to return to his own chambers—a wish she shared—but as yet, she was still keeping him at arm’s length. If nothing else, she wanted to be sure they could communicate better before they spent much more time alone. Tonight, therefore, she would be sleeping alone.

Her fingers brushed over the intricate metalwork and polished stones. “You think? I do like it.”

“I do admit, though: I have grown so used to seeing you in armor or in the field that it is unusual to see you so formally dressed again.”

She had to laugh. “It feels a little unusual, too. I am often dressed this way when I hold court in Hedeby, but somehow that seems years ago, now.”

“Well, I think you look lovely no matter whether your adornment is jewels, dirt, or the blood of an enemy.” He nudged her gently.

She laughed, and nudged back. “And you, whether you are dressed as a Northman or a Christian priest,” she teased, and drew a finger over the piece of gold that dangled from his own neck.

To her delight, he flushed and squirmed a little. “That is kind of you to say,” he finally managed, his tone a shade tight and formal.

She paused, stopping in front of the door to her chamber, and took his hand. “Oh, Athelstan,” she said quietly. She reached up with her other hand and caressed his cheek. For all that he had experienced of life in the past several years, there was still so much innocence in his face. Seeing him slightly flustered like this reminded her that he was still less than ten years older than her son. Not quite young enough to be her own child, and certainly well into manhood, but what advantage he had in years seemed erased by his naivete. She knew young men Bjorn’s age back in Hedeby whom she would never have hesitated to bed had they shown interest. Kalf himself was someone she had met as a gangly youth. Somehow, she still felt wary of crossing such boundaries with Athelstan.

Yet, she reminded herself, of course it was a boundary Ragnar had crossed, and still did. Clearly he, at least, was confident in Athelstan’s maturity. Wishing to respect their privacy, she had never asked her former husband for the details of their trysts, yet she still knew some of it, and now that knowledge—abetted by her florid imagination—filled her mind. Memories of Ragnar’s touch and of her once-intense lust for the younger man combined with the strong wine she had had with their meal. The ache grew too much to bear, and she leaned up. The first kiss she dropped on his cheek, not wanting to upset him, but then he turned to meet her.

In an instant, she was a girl again, remembering her first curious fumblings with Ogan, the herb seller’s boy who lived down the road from her parents’ farm. A surge ran through her chest, and she heard herself make a small noise of pleasure. Athelstan, for his part, had drawn a sharp, ragged breath, and moved against her, backing her up to the rough, stone wall of the corridor. She reached behind her, feeling around for the handle to her bedchamber door. 

The rattle of a sword in a scabbard and the hard thump of boots on the floor jerked her out of the feeling. Her body tensed, and she pulled away, looking around. The guard hadn’t seen them—passing their corridor on the way down another at the end—but the interruption was enough to cool her head.

“We shouldn’t,” she murmured.

Athelstan frowned in confusion. “Why not?”

“Well, for one I think Ragnar would never forgive us if we did this without him.” She grinned.

Athelstan chuckled. “That’s true.”

“He could be managed, I think. But there is another whose ire we would probably incur—one we can less afford to upset.” 

“Ecbert,” he said flatly. 

She nodded. “I do not think he is used to the things he wants being taken by someone else.”

“And he wants you.”

“Yes. Though,” she said carefully. “I am not the only one he wants.”

His jaw tightened. “Oh, that’s surely not true.” His expression betrayed the lie.

“It is, Athelstan. You know it. I know it. Ragnar certainly knows it.” She laughed wryly. “And this alliance—this treaty—we have is simply too important for us to risk angering the king.”

“You are right,” he said, stepping back further and shifting uncomfortably. 

“Perhaps,” she said, caressing his cheek again, “when we all return home, things will be different. We could . . . negotiate something with Ragnar, I imagine. For now, however, I think we should tread carefully.”

“We should, yes. And I must be honest and say that I think perhaps the wine has muddled my wits somewhat. If we ever do pick up where we have left off, I would like my head to be clear.” 

“Agreed,” she said. “In the meantime, however: I do want to be certain that things will not be strange between us.” 

He shook his head. “Of course not.” 

“Good. Because your friendship matters more to me than anything else, and now that we finally have time together again, I do not wish any of it to be tainted by awkwardness.”

“It will not be, I promise.” He smiled sadly, then leaned down for another, more-chaste kiss. “Good night, Lagertha. I hope your dreams are pleasant.”

She flashed him a meaningful grin. “Of that, I am completely sure.”


	41. Lapses

When he woke up, he had a most _spectacular_ headache. 

The last time Athelstan was in Wessex, he had imbibed only ale and communion wine, once weaning off of the healers' tinctures of poppy when his wounds began to fade. Aside from a glass or two on special feast occasions, he generally had resisted the far-stronger wines Ecbert liked to keep at his table. Life at the time was confusing enough without adding in a lack of clear thinking. Last night, however, he had allowed the indulgence, both to celebrate the seeming success of the move into the settlement, and to keep himself from otherwise-constant worry about how Ragnar and the others were faring in Mercia. Three, perhaps four glasses of the rich, dark liquid had gone down his throat during the meal. That may have been a mistake, he now realized. First, he recalled that perhaps he had been a bit too loose-lipped in discussing religion with Aethelwulf's young wife Judith, and then there was the . . . _thing_ that had happened with Lagertha as he was walking her back to her chamber. 

He rubbed his face as the memory came to him. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing that had happened, per se. While the Christian side of his conscience nagged at him for even considering bedding a woman out of holy wedlock, it wasn't as if doing so was any graver a sin than the ones he regularly committed with Ragnar—less so, in fact, given that they would only have been committing fornication instead of also sodomy and adultery. And by his pagan side, of course, there was no problem at all. They were both free adults by the laws of the Northmen, and thus entitled to choose partners at will. Too, given that Lagertha was now incapable of bearing children, there was even little chance of accidental offspring, barring a Divine-intervention level of miracle. Lingering Christian guilt aside, there was nothing technically wrong with it.

Yet of course it was all wrong anyway, and that realization made his head pound.

In private moments, he had occasionally returned to the memory of Lagertha’s near nakedness as she and Ragnar had propositioned him so many years ago. Their temptation was and always would be vivid in his mind: every sound, every scent, every glimpse of soft, warm flesh. He had, of course, eventually followed through on this temptation with one of the pair—blissfully so, and for reasons that went beyond physical desire. There was always the feeling of a hollow space in his chest when he and Ragnar were parted for more than a day. Yet he still sometimes felt that he also needed to satisfy the other half of the curiosity that had been sparked that night. Few women had ever attracted him the way Ragnar and occasionally other men did, but Lagertha was certainly one of the exceptions, and had always been. Ragnar bringing up the incident back in Kattegat before they had left had rekindled his attraction to her, and now, regularly being close again now after so many years apart had only served to fan that flame. Together with the heartsickness and frustration he felt at his beloved's absence—and rather too much wine—perhaps it was no surprise that he had found himself quickly responding to her touch. Her own reasons for initiating the contact he couldn't begin to guess, but in the light of a morning hangover, his seemed clear.

Even more clear, however, were the reasons she gave for why they shouldn't continue. She was most certainly right about the likely reactions of both Ragnar and Ecbert, and the potentially grave consequences of angering the latter. Ecbert, as he well knew, was not a man who was accustomed to not getting his way. Where Ragnar would merely be hurt at being left out of such a fun event, Ecbert would likely be furious that two of his current obsessions had found pleasure with each other without him. Given the still-delicate political situation, indulging in a night of comfort and curiosity satisfaction with his longtime friend would have been very unwise indeed.

His body, he noted with exasperation, didn't seem to care about that potential one whit now that he was recalling their clinch. For all her strength of body and will, Lagertha’s mouth and skin were soft and sweet, and her sighs as pleasant as music. Used as he was to the rougher feel of a man’s body, the contrast was intoxicating. And as for Ragnar himself, all Athelstan could think of in his regard was exactly how much—and how adorably—he would beg to be included in a repeat performance of the act, once his initial toddler tantrum at missing out on the first had passed. Such a scenario, much like the one that had initially been proposed to him when he was in no spiritual condition to assent, filled his mind with delicious ideas indeed.

There was nothing for it, he finally reasoned, but at least to do something to take the edge off of the frustration. Besides, perhaps entertaining himself would help drive away his headache.

Half an hour later, he had to admit defeat. His attempt to stave off desire did fix the headache. It didn't fix the desire. Washing and dressing, he decided to go out to try at least to give himself a distraction. When he was a young monk dealing with unwanted lust, sometimes throwing himself into his work solved the problem. He tied the laces on his belt, and headed for the archives. Surely, nothing there could rekindle in him the feelings he could not indulge. Perhaps doing some work for God might also grant him some mercy, too.

But then _she_ showed up, begging for a confessor. Judith. Aethelwulf’s wife, Aelle’s daughter, and Ecbert’s daughter-in-law. A new mother and a Christian. An even poorer choice for an outlet for his frustration than Lagertha. She came to him desperate and poured forth a cascade of passion and loneliness hiding under a thin layer of guilt and piety, and when it was all done, his senses took leave of him and he couldn’t help giving her at least a kiss. As she scurried out of the room, and his brain returned to some semblance of reasonable thought, he grumbled, and clutched at the cross that rested against his chest.

God, he decided, was surely mocking him.

Returning to the settlement—getting out of the villa’s cage-like confines—had been good for him. The purification of hard, manual labor did much to help him clear his head. Lagertha’s presence still tempted, but she herself was far better at controlling such feelings, and thus she did nothing to encourage the still-present attraction between them. He turned instead to the shovel and the hoe, letting their rustic utility take the place of actions far less productive. As he bent his head over the work, however, he saw something running down the handle of the tool and dripping onto the ground. Sweat, he thought at first, and ignored it. Yet then he realized that the pain in his hands was not blisters or a splinter from the rough wood. Neither was it the constant ache from the deep damage underneath his scars. He dropped the shovel and held his hands up, letting a beam of the morning sun illuminate their palms.

And he began to weep.


End file.
